Tag Archives: on the job

Commuted Sentence

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So normally my day goes about like this:

Or maybe like this:

Yeah, so what? I like to change my wigs and underpants frequently. I have what you could call a library. Best practices.

But somehow (giant novelty check) I became bamboozled into working (a job?? I think?) recently. It’s as easy as falling over and getting herpes from a toilet seat. One day you are sitting at home, then the phone rings, and you are all “Yes, that is me, I have a personal internet profile. Oh, what? Work? I guess I can do that thing you claim to need,” and then you have to go meet with a string of people and tailor your personal presentation carefully to each distinct personality vetting you. And you wore the blazer, and that always makes you look smart. Yeah? I know. Really cute. I would hire me.

And then, a few weeks later, I find myself doing this…thing…apparently some people do it every day. I don’t know what you call it, but it’s like a flash mob of otherwise well-intentioned people show up to drive 15 mph for 10 mile stretches at a time. WHAT IS THIS? Normally I am a maximizer and not a satisficer (think of how long it takes me to pick out panties), but when it comes to this vehicular theater, I am middle lane all the way. Screw those guys, with their left lane, and their lane changes, and their oh wait I have to move over again, now back again, oh, exit only lane? Oops! I will pass you anyway. I will bury you. I don’t know who thought up this little charade, but it is not appreciated.

Also, it turns out I am not working for the C.I.A. This is disappointing. Being recruited has really lost its charm now. What am I supposed to do with my wigs? IDK, I am still staring at goats. Here’s hoping. I will vaporize all those cars in front of me.

What Would Vomitola Do?

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Some of you may be wondering what it’s like to be Vomitola. It’s rigorous, for starters.

The other day I was at Target buying a huge monstrosity pack of toilet paper, and I was feeling rather grumpy about the whole endeavor, but then I realized I was the silly person who insists on dabbling in the work of the normal, and I could have sent my assistant.  Suddenly the whole errand became a lark! How exciting to get out and mingle with the common folk. They’ll go back to their barns and sheds and culverts and hunker down with microwaved meals, but I’ll get to go home and be me! It is not possible to have pleasure without a little suffering, even if the suffering is the exclusive domain of Target shoppers who are not I.

If I keep my sunglasses on, there is a good chance I won’t even get recognized. The perfect crime!

Every morning, I sleep in, and then Mr. H prepares me a cup of coffee. He was supposed to go to Finland this week, and I was already quailing at the prospect of making my own coffee. It is simply impossible. If I didn’t have people, I don’t know what. Well, I would use my natural pluck and intellect and charm to find more people, that’s what.

Still in my dressing gown, I drape myself languidly at my desk, congratulating myself on its understated style. I open iTunes and inevitably blast a little Visage. A rightfully adoring subject gave me one of these babies, so of course I have the highest quality musical experience one can have with a laptop. Top shelf, all the way. I summon my accountants and have them peer into the money bin, and then I reflect on what needs to be accomplished for the day. Then I assign those tasks to other people, although if they don’t want to be fired, they should have already known what they needed to do.

Mr. H is in awe of my wakeless path through the storms of fortune each day, and he consulted me about a work-related matter. Work is such a groggy and distant concept, but I thought I’d humor the little jackanapes. It was cute how he screwed up the courage to ask, and the diamond necklace didn’t hurt either. “Tell me about Steve Strange,” he said. I pointed out that Steve once spent more than £100,000 on drugs in under a year. “Well, that priest on the news the other night spent $4,000 per month on porn,” he offered. Oh, darling. No. That’s a mere $48,000 per annum, and think of the exchange rate! Accountant!

After much discussion and careful consideration, he selected the following for the opening screen of a PowerPoint presentation.

Now he will know what it’s like to triumph. He’ll either be fired or promoted to CEO, no doubt.

So next time you’re in a bind, feel free to ask us how to proceed. If there is anything in life we have in spades, it’s ideas! We are imagineers.

Welcome to my chamber of horrors

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It’s no longer makeshift! That’s right, we went outlet shopping. Through some hideous twist of fate, we ended up in the Restoration Hardware outlet. I previously thought I had all the hardware I needed for my chamber of horrors: squeakless hinges, medical grade ganches, you name it. But wait til you see the glorious off-price contents of a Restoration Hardware outlet on a holiday weekend.

I got the most adorable wrought iron letters for spelling out the names of my captives. Then I was over near the lamps, and I saw a positively medieval cage, about the size of TWO breadboxes. It had a hasp and a chain! As I approached the table, some woman in suede driving mocs pursed her thin lips at me. I think my preternatural beauty offended her.

I turned back to Mr. H and called “HONEY! Look, this is just the perfect cage for my monkey skeleton!” He sighed and peered over my shoulder. “I think it’s a wine rack.”

“No, honey, I could totally use this for my monkey skeleton. It’s just what I need.”

The lady was just staring openly by this point, so we continued the banter about where to put the monkey skeleton until she wheeled around and skittered away.

Monkey Skeleton needs a house

Later, it was revealed that Mr. H didn’t know I was joking.

Mr. H and I went to a wedding, and this involved starting to drink margaritas at 10am. All weddings should be like that. I shot second camera, and that was reasonably fun. They had a tres leches cake! That’s THREE kinds of leche. Congratulations, men! Upon review, you were lacking a glitter cannon, but otherwise I give that a solid 5 thumbs up.

Then we went and test drove Audis. Sobered up and after a mint, of course. It’s fall, and we traditionally get the urge to roll our old car into a lake right around Columbus Day. The Saabaru is making a noise, and getting it fixed seems like it will be a trial. I snapped off the piece that seemed to be the problem months ago, but now it has a new noise. Since that one is Mr. H’s car, he is likely to drive it until it falls apart on the highway without noticing. The situation remains unresolved at this time, mainly because we can’t have nice things.

Then I decided to become a justice of the peace, and would you believe Massachusetts has RULES about this? I assumed it was a take a course, pay a fee deal, but no, each town is allotted a certain number of positions, and you have to apply, including a resume and the signatures of 5 prominent state residents. Uh?? Well, one of my neighbors is on the city council, and one is in the US House of Representatives, and a former state senator gives me a donut every year on Halloween, but I just don’t have anything else going for me. Oh. I once threw up near John Kerry’s house.

It’s easier to be a notary public. There’s no position limit (only your imagination), and you only need 4 signatures for that, although one must be from a practicing lawyer. All the attorneys I know pretend not to know me in public for some reason.

In conclusion,
in fourteen-hundred-ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
Despite all the horrors that did accrue, he still never imagined the likes of you.

Chief operating visionary

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I’m getting new business cards made up. In my mind, I am smart and capable and earn a fabulous living while balancing the needs of my family. My mind is a liar. Actually, I am behind on everything to the point where no one will ever call me again, not wearing pants (which meant I had to hide from Fed-Ex, thus vexing Mr. H, who is awaiting some shiny electronic jimcrack from Apple), and my ybab hates me. I know this because she stayed up all night plotting on how best to kick me in the abdomen. Oh, mummy, come closer…closer…just a little…WHAP. Now she’s sleeping the sleep of the guilty. Unfortunately, this is on the couch. If I move her, she will wake up. If I move, she will roll over and die somehow.

So I’m using this productive naptime to delete all my email. Currently, I’m expunging August 2004. Just try to subpoena me now! I don’t know what I’m trying to erase. Proof that my life used to be so much easier? At the time I did not think it was easy. I am a sucker. I will regret deleting later, but it feels so good at the time. I sort of regret throwing out all my concert ticket stubs and all my cassette tapes, but a little pain has a salutatory effect on the soul. Right? No, I am just an idiot. And when I want to hear that particular mix tape that contained that one song, I will not be able to do so.

Would you rather

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A) Sort through three boxes of wires and cables that you’ve dragged along on the past two moves because Mr. H thinks they might be important

B) Deal with a client who says “Lighten this image,” and then turns around and says “No, I want it back the exact same way it was before.”

C) Interview pediatricians

D) Induce a diabetic coma with fun sized Three Musketeers bars while watching a saved America’s Next Top Model episode

Faith, hope, charity, murder

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I have a stupid. Ostensibly, I trained this stupid to do something marginally complicated a few weeks ago. The stupid was hired by my client due to professing knowledge in the technology selected for Project X. At the training hand-off, stupid again reiterated vast expertise. I said “Oh, that’s wonderful. Would you like to do the navigating in the tool while I run through the presentation?” I was thinking “Score, this is going to go so much faster.” Stupid declined, clearly not wanting to show off.

I went through the training exercise, and stupid frequently interjected “OH, that’s not how it used to be when I last used this FIVE YEARS AGO” or “THIS looks DIFFERENT!” Stupid sometimes asked stupid questions. I think my favorite was “Why does the company that sells this technology use proprietary markup?”

At the end of the session, I handed over a quick help document I’d written to cover troubleshooting, the manual to the technology, and all the support numbers for the company that makes the technology. I told stupid that the quickest answers would always be found in the documentation, and I was not available for continuing support per the contract the client had selected.

So far, stupid has called Actual Support several times, each time providing incorrect descriptions of the problem stupid created. Support tells stupid something that would work for what stupid actually described. The solution then doesn’t work, since stupid was wrong in the first place. Stupid then calls me. I screen stupid’s calls. So stupid pecks out an email, usually including a hilarious take on what the problem might be. These have ranged from “Maybe I need to clear my cache” to “Do you think the time change had anything to do with X not working?”

The answer to stupid’s problem is invariably the first thing I wrote in the quick help document, IN BIG CAPITAL LETTERS RIGHT AT THE TOP.

I have another pleading email sitting in front of me right now. Instead of cutting and pasting the section IN BIG CAPITAL LETTERS yet again, I think I am going to cc stupid’s boss and tell her that stupid must have broken the flux capacitor. There is nothing to be done in the case of a busted flux capacitor. They’re going to have to close up shop and go home. Sucks huh.

I’d like to build a value chain, in perfect harmony

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Bitches, this is the year I need to monetize all my channels. Because other bitches straight up do not pay on time, even bitches that are normally totally good for it because they have, I don’t know, comptrollers or CFOs or whatever. I do not know what the problem is. Everyone must be off making New Year’s Resolutions like “get organized!!!!” on little Post-It scraps. Mine is “I will bury you.” I had to cancel all charitable giving, and a guy is going to repossess my floors and key my car if you all don’t pay by the end of the month. So watch out, Big Content. I am going to “blog” every day, and I am going to put ads all over the place. You will like it. There will be mention of gumjobs. I might even start spellchecking for you.

All the folks in my life are mystified because Mr. H and I do not exchange Christmas presents. These are the same folks who will go on to ask me “Is he/she a good baby? Does he/she sleep?” And then I’ll have to say “Naw, he/she is a total douche bag of a baby.” I answered the “what did you get for Christmas” question by staring blankly. Sometimes I would grudgingly say “…a house? impregnated?” People. Honestly. We have no money, like orphans! Mr H. had to give the guy at Home Depot a reacharound in exchange for a laser level. I guess his Christmas present was when I explained what a “rusty trumpet” was. Don’t say I never told you nothing.

My snout is cold and wet like that of a basset hound

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Current mood: EAT EAT EAT

Current music: something catchy from Aimee Mann about being a sad drunk at christmas
Current terror level: financial, existential

I am talking to a flooring company about doing something to some floors. Their slogan is “A walk in the woods brought home.” For some reason, I’m picturing something involving ticks or lice. I should just gnaw my own floors like a beaver.

Earlier, I was eating leftover lasagna, and I had to ask the question “Hey, are you gonna barf on the bed?” And the answer was a barf. Thanks, cat. Luckily I caught it in a bowl, but this meant I couldn’t finish the lasagna. Problems: we all have them. Why was I eating near a bed anyway? It was the office bed. Don’t you have one? There was a time when I had to sleep under my desk, like peasant. But no more! Sometimes I take calls on the floor, but that’s just because I can.

What else can I do? So far today, I’ve been offended by the internets, and I’ve thought it was Wednesday. The parasite is bumping into walls, so I’m guessing it is offended by the internets as well. Or maybe it just wants to hear “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” again. Several people have expressed trepidation that the name “parasite” might give the little bugger the idea that it’s unwanted. Not unwanted. Shocking, sure. So from now on, I guess I’ll call it Montecore. Name that parasite!

Abnormal balls

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Silver balls, silver balls. With bells on.

I’m mixing my holiday anxiety and my work anxiety all together in my dreams. Today I woke up from one where a client had forced me to do some sort of brochure festooned with stock images of Christmas decorations, but she didn’t find them traditional enough, so I received an email with the subject “Abnormal Balls!”

We’ve all received that email. Don’t lie. Whatever. The squishing of the space-time continuum and all my vital organs continues apace. Moving to outer space was such a stupid decision. I should have sent the rest of you there instead.