Jun 30

Spaaaa-aww, fuck.

Everyone who gets to know me personally knows that I don’t exactly follow the socially approved format of the typical female. I hate clothes shopping. I own 7 pairs of shoes, and 2 of them are different types of tennis shoes. Given a choice, my ideal gift is something useful like a vacuum or a shiny new kitchen knife. I feel like most social constructs for romance are absolute crap. I cherish the thought of carrying on a long conversation by telephone like I would a full frontal lobotomy with a spork. You get the idea.

And yet? I own more hair care items than I do authentic jewelry (except a curling iron because I make those just fine on my own, thank you very much). I wax pretty much everything but my legs. (Yes, that too.) I make and use my own salt glows, sugar scrubs, bath bombs, fizzy salts, and foot baths. And while you will seldom see me with painted fingernails, you’ll never see me barefoot without a pedicure. And despite all apparent evidence to the contrary, I still manage to be showered, coiffed, made up and out the door in about 40 minutes. Walking dichotomy right here, folks.


I like to be pampered now and then, but spas are quite expensive, and the practitioners? Man, some of them are either pretentious assholes who aren’t as good at their trade as they seem to believe (unlike me – I am every bit as good at my trade as I advertise, references on request), or they’re just genuinely bad. I once had a deep tissue massage that left visible hand print bruises on me, and I paid for another that was so timid she tickled me most of the hour. I haven’t had a salon pedicure in 4 years, and a manicure in about 10. Around the time of the last pedicure, I realized that they kind of sucked at the whole spa experience portion and if I was being honest with myself, they weren’t very good at the painting portion either. That last time, I asked her to skip the massage about 10 seconds into it because it felt like talons were trying to rend flesh from bone and almost kicked her in the face before she got the hint, and then I got the judgmental inquisition.

“Why you not want massage?”
“Because you’re really not very good at it. A massage shouldn’t hurt.”

She left my feet to soak a minute as she gossiped in her native language with her judgy-eyed coworker. Wait, did the coworker just ROLL HER EYES AT ME?!? Oh, HELL no! I’m pretty sure there’s enough water left in this foot bath to hold you both under if I’m properly accounting for water displacement.
“You pick nail color now.”
“French, please.”
“French so boring! You pick exciting color!”
“Nope. French, please.”
“But you man like sassy color!”
“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t care, and I don’t want to look at discount hooker red every time I see my toes.”

And then the kicker:

“FINE! You at least wax lip for him.”
Well, I’m blonde and fair skinned, so now the bitch is obviously just insulting me.
*Pointing at her and her coworker* “Only if you two go first.”


Screw day spas and nail salons. I’ve never been asked to leave my living room for sitting around in my underwear with a bottle of wine, slurring drunken insults at my nail technician for painting my nails crooked. Although I have been asked by the local police to shut my blinds while I do it… Still classier than Paradise Nails.


In fairness, this is pretty much how I blog too.

In fairness, this is pretty much how I blog too.

Jun 02

Old Navy, you’re a crusty skank.

I’d spend a paragraph apologizing profusely for my lack of posts in the past many months, but many of you understand all too well (and some of you beat me to the punch), so I’ll just say Hello. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed blogging. Even though work has been ridiculously busy, I still find myself writing little snippets that get saved as drafts and never posted.

Truth be told, I find myself needing that outlet more and more lately. Working in an honest to god corporate environment, I just can’t get away with saying certain things (though it has snuck out on occasion, much to the chagrin of the person on the receiving end) but it isn’t exactly as though the snarky bitch can make over her personality, now is it? For example, I had the following conversation with someone today wherein I hinted that they might possibly be a chronic masturbater:

“Oh yeah? Well I have a kid that says otherwise. What’s your excuse?”
“No, congratulations on your fuck trophy, definitely. Meanwhile, I have a pristine vagina and disposable income. What else ya got for me?”

And I try so hard to be a good girl…

But onto the really important topic: what’s pissing me off today? Actually, it pissed me off yesterday, but I was still irritated this morning, so it still counts. With it being immediately summer, and me losing weight and being okay with wearing things that might show off my thighs, I decided I need shorts. However, I don’t want to spend a ton of money because I’m still losing weight. So I decided to go to Old Navy for some cheap clothes that I don’t care if I ruin inside of 3 months.


As I attempted to avoid the collective gaze of their super creepy, soul eating modelquins…

After an hour in that store, I wanted to punch the store founder in their proverbial syphilitic cooch. I left that store with 7 cami tops in different colors, 2 sun dresses, 2 clearance t-shirts, and none of the shorts I went in to get. It wasn’t for a lack of trying – I saw shorts, and it kept reminding me that I need to buy shorts, but they’re all three and a half inches long! I’m fine with baring a little thigh, but no one wants to see my ass cheeks and I’d like for my piercing to remain theoretical in the eyes of the public, rather than placing it on full display. The 2 pairs that I found in an acceptable style and length were PINK or size TWO.

But enough about their awful selection and creepy mannequins – would someone please, pretty PLEASE, tell me why it is that the shorts that I see on the mannequin are not located on the same display that the vacant, creepy bitch is standing on? They’re not even in the same quadrant of the damn store! Oh, no! I have to go find and interrupt the token gay man that every Old Navy store employs while he’s snorting a line of coke in the only available dressing room and ask him where they hide their stock. This is inevitably followed by him chewing on his own pinched little face in an infuriatingly condescending manner while he says to me, “How could you possibly be so oblivious to the fact that we keep them in the back of the store next to the bin of butt plugs that we so cleverly disguise as key rings?”

Old Navy, I want to shit in your heart.

Nov 22

WTF Friday: Assault By Any Other Weapon

Earlier in the week, my husband linked me to a news story that happened near where we live. The full article is so hilariously well written in describing events, so I won’t rehash it here but to say READ IT. It involves fisticuffs, spilled bacon, and a frozen turkey. It is worth perusing.



As is the fashion in the midwest at this time of year, it snowed today. As in, “leave a few minutes early to clear off the car and wear mittens” snow. Because I prepared accordingly, traffic was actually not bad at all and I got in 30 minutes early.


At 8:00, when everyone would generally be getting to work, maybe 2 people were on time. The receptionist was in at 8:15 bitching and moaning about how terrible traffic was and how many accidents she passed, all before she even took her coat off. Everyone else trickled in between 8:20 and 8:45 grumbling about stupid drivers too.


Before any of these grumbles started rumbling through the office, my other early arriving coworker and I made a friendly wager about how many people would show up late this morning and use traffic as an excuse. We went so far as to pull up the real time traffic cams pulled up on the internet, and make a tally every time someone claimed there was an accident. Because people live all over, very few people here take the same route to work, yet at the end of our tally, we had claims of 23 accidents on the commute this morning.


Meanwhile, my coworker and I were checking the traffic cameras and both seeing the same thing – the roadways were clear and our Starbucks toting coworkers are dirty fucking liars, trying to enjoy a leisurely Friday. I’m onto you people.


In related news, my only traffic snafu today happened when I went to pick up my salad at lunch. As I was proceeding to make a right turn on green at a traffic light, some asshole decided to change lanes in the intersection while running a red light and speeding, nearly t-boning me in the process. Most people would sheepishly drive off as fast as possible and try to pretend the event never happened. Not this douche. No, he flipped me off for being in his way. I responded in kind with my own single finger salute. He tapped his brakes at me and then changed lanes to get next to me. As he pulled along side me, he rolled down his window and started screaming at me to watch where my bitch ass was going and made various vulgar references to the intelligence of my vagina.


Not one to rise to his bait, I ended the confrontation graciously and reasonably. I chucked an empty coke can through his window and blew him a kiss before driving off.


But at least I didn’t beat him over the head with a frozen turkey.

Nov 19

It’s a Full Moon and There Are Asses Everywhere.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I’m no longer a property manager, so I no longer have tenants. That said, the front desk phone rolls over to my desk if the receptionist is away from the desk or on the other line, so I still get to talk to a lot of the company’s tenants. I’m running a hot streak of being cursed at by little old ladies at least once a day. It’s like there’s been a full moon every day for the last week. It’s easy to laugh it off when it’s some young, dumb and full of cum college kid, but when it’s your grandpa? That shit’s fucked up.


full moon


“I’ve been trying to reach *so and so* all day, and she’s not returning my calls!”
“Did you leave her a voicemail?”
“I don’t want to leave her a voicemail! I want to talk to her now!”
“Well, it doesn’t appear that she’s in the office at this point, so unless you have access to her cell phone, I cannot help you and it would be in your best interest to leave her a message so she can return your call.”
“Go fuck yourself.”


Unless you have a direct telepathic link to her brain, leave a damn message.

Unless you have a direct telepathic link to her brain, leave a damn message.


One guy was calling for someone who wasn’t in the office (and I told him as much) and kept calling back as soon as her voicemail picked up.On his 6th call, I called him out.

“You’ve called 6 times in the last 5 minutes. Either leave her a voicemail message, or try her again tomorrow, but I will not be transferring you again, so I’d highly recommend that you choose wisely.”
“Fuck off. I’ll call as many times as I want.”
He called back 30 seconds later, so I picked up the call and disconnected it without even saying hello. And then 10 more times because he was, apparently, that stupid.


We have a lot of elderly residents in elderly housing communities, and because most of them are disabled and/or don’t work, they like to fill their days by making angry calls and writing angry letters. One such lady managed to land at my desk on Friday at 4:15 (15 minutes before we close for the day) demanding to speak to my boss, the president.

In a sweet, frail old lady voice: “Yes, ma’am. I’ve got a problem with the people running the place I live, and I desperately need to talk to your boss because I just can’t keep on like this…”
“Well, I apologize that you’re having those troubles. Unfortunately, he is out of the office this week and won’t be returning until next week. Generally, we’d have you speak to your property manager first to give them the opportunity to correct the problem and –”
Losing any vestige of sweetness: “SHE IS THE PROBLEM! Now you listen to me, you little bitch – no one is ever out of the office for a whole week! I demand to speak with him right now, and if he’s not here, then I want the next person in charge behind him!”
“Okay, that would be *Department manager*. I’ll transfer you now.”
“NO! I hate her! She’s in cahoots with that harlot that runs this dump!”
“Well, ma’am, those are your options. It’s late on a Friday afternoon and most of our staff is gone for the weekend. If you’d like to leave a message, I’d be happy to transfer you–”
“This is ridiculous! There should be someone there every day to answer my call if I need something! I’m not happy. I haven’t been happy since I moved here!”
“Ma’am, may I have your name and address?”
“Why do you need that?”
“To make sure that I can communicate your information and your message to the appropriate person. And also because if you’re unhappy in that community, there may be other communities you can transfer to. Your current community has a long waiting list and I’m sure there are any number of people who would be thrilled to live there.”
“No! I’m not moving out!”
“Well then, since you’ve exhausted all of your options and are still being unreasonable, it’s now past my quitting time and I’m going to disconnect. You do your best to have a nice weekend.” *click*


And yesterday at around 3:30, there was the guy I shall henceforth refer to as “strung out on ALL the drugs.”

An unhappy resident launched into a diatribe that vascillated wildly between tears, Stoner Keanu, and Pseudo-intellectual, and failed to give me his name once during the course of an 8 minute call. Apparently, his girlfriend kicked him out, and he didn’t have his apartment keys, and he couldn’t get into his apartment, and no one at the office had answered his call in three.whole.hours. He pays rent for someone to be in that office from 8:00 to 5:00, and he thinks that his (now ex-)girlfriend is going to stick him with rent instead of subleasing in a timely manner and she’s already not paying bills, and the apartment is trashed, and he had a physical altercation with a visitor to the apartment who called the police…

Does your head hurt yet? Mine too! All the while, he was using 2 dollar words entirely out of context, and called me a “fucking slag” when I told him that he’d need to speak to a manager who was out that day. I told him that while I understood his frustration, swearing at me was not going to get him the speedy resolution he demanded. So then he switched back to Pseudo-Intellectual and said he was very disappointed in me (HAH!), that I had an obligation to respond to his concerns in a timely fashion, and that he expects better than to be treated like a criminal (?), at which point I put him into his property manager’s voice mail.

His manager replied this morning –  “He didn’t leave me a voicemail. Lucky me! But he is a criminal. He broke down a door in the apartment to get at some guy and start a physical altercation.”


And this is how I feel after covering the phones for any length of time.

And this is how I feel after covering the phones for any length of time.


The receptionist has been trading stories with me about some of the crazies she’s dealt with and I’m giving her helpful tips. She recommended that she just be allowed to tell them all that I said to blow it out their tight asses.


I might just be turning into a bad influence.

Nov 13

The Flaming Wok: a Murder-Suicide Near-Miss

I feel as though I owe all of humanity a deep and heartfelt apology for my very extended absence, but it’s actually been very good for me. For anyone who doesn’t already have the 411 from stalking my personal Facebook, I got a new job. A couple, actually.

  • No longer am I freezing my ass off on winter days to show apartments to spoiled college kids that never show up.
  • No longer am I mediating roommate disputes for grown ass adults.
  • No longer am I dealing with constant, idle threats of lawsuits from clueless parents, unpaid overtime and verbal abuse from my employer, or that general feeling of dread at opening my eyes every morning.

No longer am I working in property management.


I “Woohoo’d” so hard that I got fined by the NFL for excessive celebration.

I decided that my mental well being was well worth a paycut, and I accepted a job with another management company (that also does some property management, but without an iota of help from yours truly) as the executive assistant to the president. I also work in the Rural/Affordable housing department in compliance. (On a side note, I’ve gotten some very promising referrals for massage therapy as well.) Needless to say, I’ve spent the past 3 months trying to keep my head on straight while I get the hang of everything, and I’ve only recently started to realize some breathing space.

I can’t promise a 3x/week update, but I’m back from the dead!


Today’s update comes to you from the murder machine I married. Thanks, Honey!


We decided that beef with broccoli might be nice for dinner last night, and we all know how my husband got married just so he could stop eating vegetable (please don’t ask me to explain his logic), so I jumped at the opportunity to get him to eat something moderately healthy. I got the wok out and oiled, and left it to heat up while he started making rice. A few moments later, he called out from the kitchen, “Is the wok supposed to be smoking?”

“Yes. It’s a wok. High heat is kind of its thing.”

“Oh. Well, it just caught fire.” He delivered the line deadpan. Very matter of fact. No panic whatsoever. So I walked into the kitchen to check on its progress, assuming that he’s just being the usual charming smartass only to find that there are, in fact, flames shooting into the air from the wok as he is holding the damn thing by the handle.

Like this, but bigger.

Like this, but bigger.

“Don’t just stand there, man! Dump some baking soda on it!”

“Oh. Can you get it for me?” Still no urgency.

I grabbed the baking soda from the pantry, unceremoniously dumped a healthy amount in the wok and watched the fire snuff out, before he set the pan down.

Right back on the burner.

Which was still set to high.


“Put it in the sink, Ken!”

He carefully placed the wok in the sink and turned back to turn the burner under the rice off, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the other burner was still on and glowing a nuclear shade of red, and the wok is still emitting foul black smoke in the sink behind him.

“Ken… Run some water in the pan.”

By the end. our house was filling with black smoke, and we had the patio door open to clear out the apartment with 28 degree air, there was baking soda dust everywhere, and the fire alarm is going off.


You know, I always joke with my husband that his inexhaustible supply of ratty t-shirts and aversion to shaving makes him look like a dirty hobo. Go figure that he’d cozy up to a barrel fire right there in our kitchen. Baby needs an E-Z Bake Oven.




And finally, I leave you with an inappropriate anecdote from the Queen and myself:

Queen Inappropriate, talking about one of her monster dogs: She’s just a terrible dog. She’s chewed up 2 pairs of panties, 2 pairs of pants, a top, one of Jay’s shoes, a pair of headphones that she literally opened a drawer with her mouth and took out the headphones, the single Burberry shoe, the single Prada shoe, and one Ugg.
Me: She should be commended for the Ugg. Get that dog a pupcake.
Queen Inappropriate: it was a slipper. Don’t judge me, slut.


Happy Hump-Day, boys and girls! Bonus points go to the person with the most creative humping picture.

Older posts «