So this is the job, bob…

As I’ve mentioned, I started a new job mid-January. The first day (and a half? I honestly don’t remember. I tried to put myself in a voluntary coma) was spent in general training. Ethics. Medical coverage. Retirement plans. College savings plans. 401ks. Sexual Harassment.

Here’s my answer to all of those:

1. I have them.

2. Thanks. You pay me so little, you might as well give me good benefits.

3. How do people retire on this salary?

4. No kids, but thanks.

5. See #3, but insert “save” in lieu of “retire”.

6. whaaaaaaat

To be honest, the sexual harassment section was the funniest of them all. And I don’t mean that in a way that says I condone it. (For shame!) But some of the information, and the way they chose to present it, was hilarious. Some of it was straight-forward: Hitting on people, unwanted advances, etc…not cool. But at one point they said sarcasm was not allowed. WAIT.

Back up the truck.

Sarcasm is my modus operandi. It keeps me sane, in a cynical way, but also makes me laugh and not take situations too seriously. It gives me an outlet for the dumb encounters of life. And it’s not appropriate or allowed?!?!?!



I was concerned I would be faced with an onslaught of interactions with coworkers turned drones. No personalities whatsoever.

So it was to my enthusiastic surprise when, on day two, I asked for help and the guy training me asked another code veteran to help me and he said “NO! I don’t like her. I know she’s new, but she’s mean…and she has cooties.”

Thank you sweet baby Jesus. Sarcasm lives.

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Shopping cart shenanigans

If grocery stores are a microcosm of the human race…and shopping carts are the way we show our effort levels…I don’t want to be a part of this species anymore.

On two separate instances, I saw things that horrified me in their laziness/stupidity today.

Instance one: At lunch I walked over to the grocery store before heading home to get some food for a recipe I planned to make tonight. Walking across the street and alongside the parking lot, I witnessed a college-age boy come out of the store. He then skip-pushed (you know what I mean…where you run and jump up on the cart to glide along for a few moments) his way to what I assume was his mommy’s Cadillac SUV to unload his groceries junk food. After depositing said food in the vehicle, he then got into the SUV. The cart was still in the empty spot next to him. I shook my head. What happened next is what made my jaw drop. He started the car, rolled down the window, grabbed the cart, and DROVE it to the cart return. It was 5 spaces away. I hope the scratches on mommy’s car were worth your sad sack of lazy bones. If you are the future of our country, I’m moving.

Instance two: After work, because I didn’t have the recipe in hand, I got to go back to said grocery store to collect two ingredients. During this walk over, I saw a guy, my age or older, walk his cart through the lot after unloading his groceries in his car…past another stranded cart…across a lane…to an empty spot…and leave his cart. He just walked the distance to the cart return…in the opposite direction. Not only that, but the stranded cart he walked past? Another patron was sitting in his car waiting to pull into that spot, thinking this guy was going to collect the cart for him so he could do so. So this guy SAW me watch him…saw the person and his wife in the car watch him…and still did a lazy, indecent thing with absolutely no remorse.

Where’s natural selection when you need it? What shopping cart karma god will avenge their stupidity? Get your sh!t together, ‘Murica. I call shenanigans.

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My dog requires more maintenance than me

So when I first got Madeleine, I knew that at some point I would try to teach myself how to groom/cut her hair myself. Not because I find it fun, or enjoying, but because I’m a frugal gal. I mean…I’m the girl who hasn’t cut her own hair since July. No, not this July. I mean July 2012. That happens when your hair trimmings revolve around being long enough for donation. But I also don’t have bangs, like this crazy mop dog.

Morning of grooming festivities.

Anyway. Haircuts. I used to cut my ex-husband’s hair. How hard could it be?

Really hard. 

For serious. I now have a gained respect for groomers and barbers of tiny humans. Madeleine flailed like an epileptic psycho anytime I tried to get near her head or her paws. I was able to get all of her torso and down her legs, with much struggling and biting – her, not me, obviously. I then put her muzzle on her because the bites were starting to hurt, and realized…well…this isn’t going to work, I can’t even get to her face to shave it now.

Soooo….an emergency call to the groomer and a rushed drive to make it there for the last booking, and everything’s all better (Sorry, landlord. I’ll pick up those dog shavings tomorrow). She’s cut a little short for her size. Kind of pitiful-looking, actually. But it’s cut and out of her eyes and should last through winter.

The groomer gave me all sorts of hell. I walked in and she said “you tried to cut her yourself, didn’t you?” Why yes, yes I did. And I will continue to do so because paying more for my dog to get groomed more frequently than my every year and a half hair cut is bag o’ cats crazy, if you ask me.

She actually said I did a pretty good job, that the face and paws are obviously the hardest. She giggled and said, “It looks like she has little boots on”…because of the line on the leg past which Madeleine would begin to gyrate like a person in need of an exorcism. Yes, funny funny ha ha. This isn’t an UGG commercial. Please fix it.

But she wanted to give Madeleine poofs and crazy bananas stuff. No ma’am. I don’t plan on bringing a high-maintenance dog into my life and I’ve done pretty good at preventing that so far. No poofs, or pink, or bows of any kind. She sulked back into the grooming station and said she’d call when Madeleine was ready. Maybe that was why she buzzed so short. Revenge of sorts.

My pretty girl is quickly growing into her new haircut…which is also growing as quickly as she is. She’s like the velveteen rabbit right now. The short chop is soft and cuddly. Which is good because I feel bad that she looks naked and appears cold and am therefore letting her break rules and cuddle with me at night. Bad mommy, I know. You can slap my wrists later.

For now, I’m going to go cuddle.

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Halloween in November?

Typically anything and everything Halloween is promptly packed away and not talked about again until next year starting the moment the clock strikes 12. Ironically, we don’t turn into the Cinderella pumpkins, but rather the pumpkins disappear.

However, because of Indiana’s asinine decision to postpone trick or treating due to “inclement” weather possibilities last night, TODAY is Halloween. (This topic could be a whole blog post in and of itself) So I don’t feel bad posting a Halloween related funny for Friday Fun-day. Enjoy! Happy Halloween/Dia de los Muertos!!*

*There’s a non-PC ‘Murica/Spanish joke in there somewhere, but I’m just going to leave it alone.

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TED Thursday: The world of online dating

I came across this TED talk today. A girl, recently out of a relationship, who loves data and connecting the dots and makes a mean timeline. She’s a planner. Any of that sound familiar?

I found myself laughing out loud at a couple parts, loving how she broke down the system to find what she needed. The talk is hilarious. Give it a listen.

As I’ve talked to friends, most of whom are happily married, about the re-entry to the single world…they are at a loss for advice on how to meet guys. You can’t just stroll across the Quad or go to a new class next semester and hope you find a cutie worth getting to know. And most of these happily married friends? Have friends who are happily married. So they can’t troll their friends for possible dates for me, either. Time and time again, their answers were “what about online dating?”

There are so many thoughts that come to mind with that simple question. Because it doesn’t feel so simple. Which site would I choose? Where do I even begin when it comes to setting up a profile? How much/how little information do I tell? What happens when no one emails/pokes/responds/messages/(insert whatever it is you do to chat on online dating because I’m so clueless here) me?

This lady took those frustrations and her skillset and made it work for her. It’s hilarious…and ingenious. While I don’t plan on engineering a handful of fake profiles, I applaud her for doing the legwork. And the moral of the story is: the legwork paid off. Sometimes, alright – most times, boys are dumb and they need help putting their shoes on, let alone finding someone who could conceivably become a life partner – so the creepy fake profiles seem less creepy when it pays off. Alright, the shoes are probably an overstatement, but I bet every girl reading this is nodding her head.

It all seems laughable to me.

[Find site]

[Create account with boringly literal or strangely funny username to lure boys]

[Insert picture]

[Add stupid quip that continues to attract said boys]

I’m pretty sure “Divorcee with dog and no steady income” is not the product of the algorithm that ends in my favor. That is not the milkshake that brings the boys to the yard.

I’m also pretty sure that my list would have at least 72 data points.

But what I do know FOR A FACT…is that I have awesome friends who will remind me along the way that he is out there and I just have to keep living and working and someday my man of action will show up.

Bring it, dating world. Smileygirl1978 ain’t got nothin’ on this milkshake*.

*In fact, it appears she hasn’t even seen a milkshake in awhile.

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Who cares, I’m awesome

On a related note to my blessed post, where I mentioned a couple ways in which I’m getting over the single hurdle with the help of friends and family, I have another “single gal” funny for you.

One night last week, I was sitting at the computer working and saw a mouse – literally SAW IT – skitter across the floor from the living room to the kitchen. I texted the landlord who came through with 4 traps, two different kinds, and tips on setting them that night.

The next day, upon arriving home from work, I was greeted with the present of a mouse in a trap. After getting over the initial shock – not sure why I was shocked, exactly. After all, that was the intent when I set them – I walked over to gather the trap/mouse and dispose of it outside.

And then it jumped.

Holy blazes of hellfire.

What’s funny to me now is: I jumped in a circle like a little girl, screaming and waving my hands….while it hopped the trap in a circle, screeching and trying to get loose.

And Madeleine? She was having a field day with the crazy.

So…I texted the landlord. He wasn’t home to remedy the mouse situation (come to find out he’s not a fan of mice either). Nor were any of my friends in a close distance. It was big girl pants time. I put the bag back over my hand, kicked the trap around so that I could pick it up from trap end, and went for it.

And then it squeaked.

And I dropped it.

And squeaked myself.

Round two was more successful and the mouse is now in mouse heaven somewhere. And me? I rewarded myself with a beer. No man needed here. I got this sh!t under control.

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The S#!t Show that was Sunday

Now that I’m a couple days removed, I can laugh at myself a little.

Sunday…was brutal. Talk about death march.
I felt like a complete sh!t show.
Thankfully I only felt this way, not WAS this way.
In the process of trying to figure out why I was hurting so much, I played internet doctor and now know where my appendix and gallbladder are located. Good news, the pain source wasn’t at either of those locations.
I also realized that I need to change my living will. (I realized this before I realized where my appendix was. While in a fever-induced delirium, I was concerned my stabbing pain was appendicitis.)
I was laying on the couch in fetal position, whimpering, thinking…ok, if I go to the ER…who do I call? Who is my emergency contact? F#(k, I need to change my will. Katie gets all my sh!t (You’re welcome). I need to write this down. I don’t want to get up to get a pen and paper. I don’t even think I CAN get up to get a pen and paper. They’ll just have to take dictation in the ambulance. Mooooaaaaannnn. Whimper.
I’m not kidding about the whimpering. It was PATHETIC. If there were drunk kids milling about, they would have vine’d me like nobody’s business. I would be almost asleep (I think) and wake up to whimpering sounds even I didn’t know I made.
Plus side: I cleaned the toilet on Saturday.
Negative: It now needs to be cleaned again.
Plus side: Really awesome diet.
Negative: If you enjoy hurling your favorite comfort foods and convulsing like the girl from The Exorcist.
Plus side: Good workout from all muscles being tensed while in a feverish shake all day.
Negative: You feel like you were pummeled by a MMA fighter the next day.
Oh, did I mention, while all of this was going on, my dog ate the head off of a dead bird? Yeah, that happened.
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Pressurized minerals

There are many ways that puppies train you for children. Today, and for the next couple days, I will get to experience one of them. Dealing with poop.

You know that saying when sometimes people are acting like they think they’re special? Some variation of “What? Does she think she shits rainbows?” Or something about the poop being valuable. Well right now Madeleine’s poop is VERY valuable. 
Today while I spent lunch on the phone with the California State Board of Equalization (small business stuff), she spent it barking. Towards the tail end of the conversation, the barking stopped. That should have been my sign that trouble was afoot. Instead , 15 minutes later, I realized she was chewing on something. What, you might ask? None other than my amethyst necklace, an heirloom from my great grandma. It must have broken off the clasp earlier that day (I put it on to wear it to work that morning) and she found it on the floor. 
It is now missing 4 small amethysts. And I am digging through poop for the foreseeable future.

Happy Monday, folks. I guarantee yours was better than mine!

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Laugh a little

Sometimes when you’re in a funk, you just have to laugh at yourself, or something else.

Happy Tuesday!

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Sometimes you just have to laugh at yourself

Yesterday, I made what is probably the most stereotypical purchase of my life. On the way to work, I stopped at the store and bought tampons and a 4pk of double chocolate chip muffins. Ho-leee cow. Even the checkout lady looked at me like, “Mmmhmm. I know what you’re goin’ through, girl. Eat that muffin in peace. To hell with periods.” Or at least, that’s the comment I perceived from her look of understanding mixed with pity. I looked back at her with a face I assume said, “If I could feed this directly to my uterus, I would.”

I laughed at myself as I walked across the street to work, and laughed as I chowed on that muffin like the owl in the tootsie-pop commercial. Because really, if you can’t laugh at yourself during some brief discomfort that you can’t help, all you’ve got is feeling sorry for yourself. And who wants that? Not me. If I’m going to throw a party, it’s not going to be a pity one. It’s going to be an awesome one, standard for how I feel the other 29 days of the month when my lady parts aren’t actively revolting. So in the meantime, I’ll just eat that chocolatey goodness and laugh. And maybe mix it with some wine. Except I was at work, so I mixed it with delicious coffee instead.

I pawned off two of the other muffins onto friends. And that last one? Well…that was my afternoon snack. And my uterus thanked me with a cease-fire on the cramps. Evidently the ransom was for two double chocolate muffins. Who knew? If it would’ve just left me a kind note, I would’ve happily fed it two earlier that morning to prevent the day-long rumble in the jungle going on in my ab muscles. Oh well. I at least know now for next time.

Now don’t mind me while I go to the gym…

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