So as I slip further and further into this debillitating bout with STS (short timer’s syndrome) I find it easier and easier to shuffle off the ball and chain that is work. Example: I have spent all day thus far answering phones and filing occasionally while watching Netflix and also crafting at my desk. Coworker started his vacation today and the boss is out of town at another property for the day, leaving me to hold down the fort. Of course, that didn’t stop the bastard from calling in at 8:02 to make I actually came in. Consider my paid foray into needlepoint the price of treating employees like trained monkeys. Schmuck.
Really, the only drama to be had around these parts lately is the fact that the city council rammed through a new ordinance that makes it mandatory for Landlords to provide voter registration information and forms to all of our tenants in their move-in packets. Because obviously, making sure they brush their teeth, and eat their vegetables, and register to vote is part of the business of renting an apartment. Yeah. I’ll get right on that, as soon as I finish tucking them in. The political cartoon the paper ran was pretty priceless. Never in my life have my tenants been so perfectly represented in pen and ink:
Except for the phones, which are out of control with the usual barrage of stupid questions, it’s SLOOOOOW this week. My husband is wrapping up his last day of the Mad Science conference, which means I haven’t seen him for more than about an hour since Saturday. I’m having some difficulty in making my small amount of work stretch out over 9 hours. “The calm before the turnover shitstorm,” as we’ve taken to calling it. By all accounts, I should be taking these days as paid vacation, but the boss would probably have a stroke at being closed, so here I am. To make up for the fact that I’m bored shitless, I spend a lot of time logged into G-chat, yapping at Queen Inappropriate and dragging her productivity down to my level.
Yesterday, we had some contentious debate via chat and failbook regarding our respective proclivities for Mexican food.
Taco Slut: so saturday morning, we’ll do the normal breakfast taco thing– bacon, eggs, cheese, sausage sour cream, salsa veggies. you can eat your shit on a tortilla or not
me: I love me breakfast burritos.
Mexi-whore: no. tacos. they are not burritos
me: Same fuckin’ thing.
Incorrect Skank: no.
Utterly Mistaken: No. They are not the same thing at all
me: Same ingredients, different size tortilla.
Dead Wrong: You live in wisconsin. you don’t even know what you’re talking about
me: I spent 7 years in California. I know my mexican breakfast, ho.
Still wrong: that’s not even mexican, fuck you.
me: Semantics, bitch. You has them and I still don’t care.
Never been more wrong: Fuck you. A burrito is not a taco. it’s like saying a fucking car is a truck.
And it didn’t stop there. She decided to drag failbook into it too.
And in case you missed the pictured she linked me:
Taco Harpy: I made this for you:
me: You can just eat me, you taco fellating freak.
Crazed Taco Whore: haha
In other news, It’s 11 more work hours until my flight to go spend the weekend with Taco Slut and the rest of our nerd collective. However the previous years’ parties have gone, King Inappropriate is in for some massive hair loss. Queen Inappropriate is a handful of a firecracker on her own. Add Inappropriate Friend to the mix, and he’s double fisting trouble AND handfuls of torn out hair.