I’d like to go on record as saying that the only reason I got out of bed this morning is because I really had to pee and once I was up, it didn’t make a lot of sense to get back in bed. So I begrudgingly did my hair and applied makeup and strolled into work 90 seconds late, only no one noticed or cared because they were 10 minutes behind me.
Suffice to say, I’ve already made the conscious decision not to try for employee of the year today and I submit into evidence the following:
Me: “Ode to a Monday Morning:
I sit here at my god damn desk
My feet are blocks of ice.
My head, it aches; my back is sore.
I don’t feel like playing nice.
So here I sit, preparing renewals
At a price you’ll hate no doubt.
But this is the deal, and I hate your face.
So move your dumb ass out.
Queen Inappropriate: You are retarded. And you need a new job.
Truer words have never been spoken…
Usually, I consider the weekend a win if I come in and don’t have any voicemail messages or emails from the police or tenants about fires, or murders, or excessive party damages. Apparently, we were just full of fail this weekend. The police left a voicemail about a call they responded to because some drunk dumbass was punching holes in the side of the building. Sure enough, fist sized holes everywhere and some moron who will probably be visiting the campus health center later with complaints of hulk hand.
Then there was the email wherein someone reported that their house was actually set on fire. Yep. Fire. Apparently, someone dumped the hot ashes from their tailgate hibachi into one of our trash cans before walking over to watch the game and it melted the trashcan, incinerated all the trash inside, and reduced the siding of the house into a gooey pile of carcinogenic fail.
I wait with anxious anticipation for the police to come tell me that one of our properties is an active crime scene. Then again, if it ends up being a murder house, it might be much easier to lease…
This weekend was the symphony season opener and so I gathered up my favorite culture afficionado and we ventured into the chilly fall air for some much needed grownup time. Only our version of grownup time generally involves juvenile sex puns and really inappropriate comments that make surrounding eavesdroppers hilariously uncomfortable. At one point, we stopped at Starbucks for after dinner coffee to kill some time and she related to me a conversation she had with her husband about meningococcal meningitis wherein he thought she said “ninja taco meningitis.”
“He thought it was code for something.”
“What kind of freaky sex games are you playing where that’s your safe word?”
“Pft. Safe words are for pussies. He might be screaming but that’s how you can tell he’s having fun! Until he gets all whiny and says things like, ‘ow! you’re pinching me!’ ‘ouch! That hurts!”
“It doesn’t bend that way!”
“Exactly. Freakin’ whiner.”
You could tell that our barista was horrified and intrigued all at once.
By the time we got to the concert hall our feet hurt (stupid sexy heels), and we still had 40 minutes to kill before doors opened. Of course, the first performance of the season always has a ton of undergrads who receive discount tickets so that they can write up a review for one of their many liberal arts or English classes. So we sat down at a table with my $6 plastic glass of pinot grigio swill and made derisive comments about the undergrads’ unfortunate choice of “symphony appropriate attire.”
Her: “I’m not dressed slutty enough to be here tonight.”
Her: “What a lovely clavicle you have! Where are your tits?”
Also her: “Fucking mouth breather.”
At around the same time that they asked us to turn off our phones she was itching to smack the girls in front of us for doing exactly the opposite. I hinted a little vocally that some people need the kind of engraved invitation that can only be delivered by a kick to the back of the head, and it occurred to me that the majority of the public at large cannot handle our greatness in super concentrated form.
And then I saw something that changed my mind…
The opera will be performing Verdi’s Masked Ball next month and I bought tickets because the ad inside my program said to bring your own knife, but I had a better idea. We’re going to get wine wasted at my house a few days beforehand and craft our own masks to wear.
This will either be an epic win with many pictures, or an abysmal failure of which we will never speak. Stay tuned…