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.

Jun 25

More Love Letters of Doom

Let’s play a game of riddles!


What has two thumbs, is working this weekend, and has a less than positive attitude about it?


If you didn’t know that I was referring to myself, then you’re obviously new here. Welcome. And brace yourself.


It just so happens that the 30th, and termination dates for two of my apartments, falls on Sunday and I will have to do inspections on Sunday morning. The past several months have been a culmination of backstabbing, broken promises, belligerence, and believe it or not, it’s not me. Between some of the tenants, and the people I work with, I positively dread rolling out of bed in the morning to come to this awful place, and I have moments every single day where I fight the urge to quit without notice and become penniless and homeless because it can’t possibly be worse than working with people who clearly hate you.

Needless to say, I’ve been trying not to unload this because it’s not funny, it’s just really horrible, but if I don’t let some of this out, I’m going to lose my shit, so here goes nothing. I’ll try to make it amusing.



Love Letters of Doom – the Ultimatum


Dear boss and coworkers,

Remember when I started here and was just a dumb girl employee who couldn’t be trusted to properly check out an apartment? No, that was the work of far more competent people of the male persuasion. But then the first weekend turnover happened and it’s been my job ever since. Because working a weekend be women’s work now.


Of course, that never stops you from micromanaging the ever loving bejeezus out of my work. “Is the oven clean? Are the drip plans clean? Did you check blinds? Did you check screens? Did you pull out the appliances and make sure it was clean underneath?”


Hmm, let me think…Yeah, no. I stood there in the middle of the apartment and communed with the good spirits who told me that everything is in acceptable condition. The notebook full of condition notes is actually a journal in which I write moving poetry and the big ass camera around my neck is just a ridiculously oversized necklace. Jackass.


Meanwhile, I’ll be taking a half day to make up for the hours I’ll be working on my day off and I have no doubt that you’re going to pitch a fit because I wasn’t there to answer the phone that isn’t ringing. You’ll keep watching what time I leave for appointments, or lunches that you don’t think I’m entitled to, and you’ll note the times that I return and harass me about where I am and what I’m doing every second of my day while still willfully disobeying the law and not paying overtime. Where was I for an hour? Well, not that my lunch plans are any of your business, but I figured I’d drive to the local park, have a sandwich, and possibly sacrifice a virgin to the Great Mephistopheles for a few minutes before returning to my mundane existence as a lowly “secretary.” Also, let’s discuss titles here, Skippy McMisogynist. I know you probably use Mad Men as your HR handbook and idolize Don Draper, but the word “secretary” went out of style around the same time as Jane Fonda’s hairstyle circa “Nine to Five.”


You all treat me like an expendable here and it gives me no incentive to do more than you ask me, but do you know the other reason I don’t take initiative, Boss? It’s because you’re a batshit crazy control freak. You complain incessantly that you’re swamped and you’ll never get caught up and you don’t have time to worry about little stuff that we can handle. And yet? When I ask if there’s something I can help with, you tell me no – you have to handle it. Then, in the next breath you’re at my desk wondering what I’m working on and criticizing how I do everything even though you were on vacation four times in the past 3 months and couldn’t figure out how to do the rest of our jobs if you were given an instruction manual and a fairy god mother.  Why bother to take initiative to do anything when I’m going to be second guessed by not one, but two other people who spent so much time supervising that they could have done it themselves.



My dearest Tenants!

Most of you are pretty decent as far as tenants go. This has actually been a pretty good year, a handful of people and their parents excepted. But some of you are raging sociopaths. The things that you say about me or other people in the office in your pitiful attempts to appeal to whomever you perceive to be in a position of power is ridiculous. Sadly, I can’t trust most of you any further than I can drop kick you and give how thick skulled some of you are, I’m afraid of breaking any more toes. That doesn’t stop you from claiming that I promised you something that has never been done in the history of this company, or claiming that you talked to someone that doesn’t work here. You will even be so bold as to cite conversations that you had with me on days that I’ve actually been out sick or on vacation. That’s why I put everything in writing. You can say it happened until you’re blue in the face, but if it isn’t in writing, there’s a 99.9% chance that it’s the kind of terrible fiction that only the Stephanie Meyers of the world can get away with.

I would ask, “How stupid do you think we are?” but you, Boss, will automatically assume that everything they say is gospel and that I’m the one in the wrong. And this? This is why you can’t get a “secretary” to stick around for more than 6 months.


This company is the reason that so many people defecate on their employer’s desk by way of resignation and I’ve talked to your previous employees – I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that it’s been done before. Lucky you – I’m literally too anal retentive for that approach, and even when I’ve really hated an employer, I’ve never been vindictive. I’ve stuck around long after everyone else would have blown this popsicle stand out of a misplaced sense of responsibility and the work ethic you are convinced that I don’t possess. But rest assured that while I won’t take a dump on your chair when I leave, and I will be leaving, I do give a crap just enough to make sure that the karma bus mows you down like a jet powered lawn mower.







Jun 21

We are all hilariously stupid.

It’s been stressful around the Atypically Relevant universe lately while I keep busy and await some possible big news. Since I’ve been stalking and crashing on your proverbial couches by way of funny comments, I figured I’d throw a small party here at my place. So without any glitzy centerpieces are 20 piece bands, I give you some random hilarity from me and mah peeps these last few months.




“You get all the cool stuff. I just get unfriended by Jesus.”
-Dani at Facebooking from the Edge


“I’m still holding out to be a bronze statue in the town square for my contributions to society… Of course, if that’s not possible, perhaps I could be made into spice, so the contributors to headache in my life can truly and sincerely eat me.”
-Drew Baxter in a conversation about art, gone terribly awry.


“Listen, when I see a group of Marines in their dress blues coming towards me on the street, I avert their gaze because they always look like they could disembowel me with an index finger and a dirty look.  A group of Navy guys always look like they are about to break into a musical song and dance number.  I respect you guys, and I know you are tough as shit, but Christ, you really drew the short straw on this one…I should go.  I imagine there is a Navy Destroyer somewhere poised to fire a Tomahawk missile right up my ass…”
Arrogant SOB during a Chaos in Theory blog-lecture


“Babies are magical. They make my friends disappear.”
– Me, regarding my dearly departed social circle.


“As a matter of fact, I think masturbation during prayer hour would be a fantastic use of my time. A whole hour is more than enough time to do it right!”
– Me, regarding what I’d do during prayer time at a religious private school.


Ken, while flipping through an old book:
“Ugh! Weird pictures of testicular torsion! I don’t need to see pictures of that. I KNOW it’s fucked up.”


Queen Inappropriate, regarding a certain blouse:
“It’s sooooo comfy and so flattering! Wear a push up for a night on the town or strap those puppies down for the office.”
Me: “I don’t strap shit down for this office. These puppies are crowd control.”


Tina, regarding my atheist lack of soul:
“You’re like a ginger, only you did it to yourself.”



me: *hwarf*

Queen Inappropriate: wtf is a hwarf
me: That would be the onomatopoeic version of *vom*. Because anything related to mung is ick.
Queen Inappropriate: wtf is a vom? Is onomatopoeic a real word?
me: Yes. An onomatopoeia is a word that makes the sound it’s describing. Like “thud” or “thwackata, thwackata, thwackata.”

Queen Inappropriate: This conversation is terrible. Like, this is not at all what I came to this chat for.



me: You’ve never experienced Disneyland until you’ve spent 10 hours there with a fever.
Steve: And I never will. Mickey can suck my dick.
Me: Being that the Mickey costume is generally worn by a girl, that’s not a half bad proposition.



me: I have to go pick up my cat from Meowschwitz after work because we’re Anne Frank-ing her while our management does the annual apartment inspections.

Steve:  And you say this to a Jew.
Steve:  I <3 you.


Queen Inappropriate, regarding her husband:

He’s so awesome. I don’t believe in god, but if I did, I’d believe he sent him to me as a reward for not slaying my family when I was a child.


My husband, calling me at the office: Did you bring your gym bag to work today?

Me: No, why?

Him: Crap! I forgot to put deodorant on this morning.

Me: I have some in my desk…

Him: Is it strong enough for a man? Never mind. I’ll be right there.


me:  My god, tenants are such drama queens. And I actually mean “queen” pretty literally here. In a “pound me in the ass, Freddie Mercury” kind of way.



From Val, following an exchange of mailing addresses:Val: Thanks! Now I shall totally show up all creepy like at your house! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Just kidding… Or… Am I….?
Me: I have an attack cat. Bring it.
Me: No, seriously, I’m bleeding right now. Bring band aids.
Val: I’m all out of band aids.. But… I’ve got duct tape. And also .. Hope.

Jun 12

You’re a creep. Put away your weiner.

Great, now I have a terrible Radiohead song in my head. It couldn’t be helped though. I’m trying to prevent a future sex offender.


I started this all wrong…Let me start again.


I’m dog sitting for my friend Tina while she’s out of the state. As I was taking him for a walk to relieve himself after being trapped inside with my homicidal maniac of a bully cat, we walked into an odd situation. Because this is me we’re talking about after all. We were walking past one of the other buildings along our street when we happened upon a teenage boy of 14 years or so, standing partially behind one of the bushes that line the sidewalk. I’m not particularly enamored of my neighbors and keep mostly to myself, so I’m not sure if he lived in the building or not. My ability to care about this fact disappeared when he started making weird googly, “I am a future rapist” eyes at me. I shook my head at him and said, “You are one creepy kid.” In turn, he flipped me off and slunk away in his creepy way while the dog and I continued our evening constitutional.

This has nothing to do with anything, but I laughed. Hard.

This has nothing to do with anything, but I laughed. Hard.

About 20 minutes later, we were returning to the comfort of air conditioning, the same kid was standing there on the sidewalk with one of the local police officers who was lecturing him about loitering (so I’m assuming that he probably didn’t live there after all). As the dog and I got closer, the kid pointed at me and said, “Hey, that bitch called me creepy!”
The officer looked up to see a relatively well dressed white girl with a fluffy little white dog and replied to the kid, “Well, what were you doing that she would say that to you?”
“Nothin’, man! I was just standing next to that tree, watching.”
“That tree?” *He points at the bush next to the sidewalk* “You were just hanging out behind a bush and watching?”
“Yeah, man! That was it!”
“How could you possibly think that wouldn’t be creepy to anyone who sees you?”
Well played, officer. I couldn’t have put it better myself.
My life has become too weird, even for me.

May 29

Congratulations: you’re a social atrocity. Fix it.

I received what is possibly the greatest voicemail of my entire life yesterday. My friend and I have a standing date at 6:15 on weeknights to go to the gym. Over this holiday weekend we’d gotten a bit lax and when she left after dinner on Monday she said “Gym tomorrow – no excuses!” I went through my day yesterday prepared for a workout after work, but around 4:45 I got the illustrious “Greatest Voicemail of All Time.”


“It’s Tina. I know when I left yesterday I said “no excuses,” but then *daughter* bled all over my workout clothes, so I’m going to have to bow out tonight so I can do laundry.”


I will be asking tonight at our rescheduled workout time about the infant blood spatter. (Given that she just started walking, my money is on ‘nosedive into the coffee table.’)

Meanwhile, the voicemail was A++. Would listen again.


I have a scar in the middle of my forehead from a similar faceplant.


It hasn’t all been slacking off, watching TV and eating bonbons, however. I did decide to plant a small patio garden this year to see what would grow in our limited patio sun. Part of this project ended up requiring a trip to garden center, followed by repeated lifting of bags of sand and river rock. I think I got a harder workout doing that than I have at the gym to this day.  But now I’m sore, and I don’t sleep well when I’m sore so I’m also tired. I’m quite short tempered and I daresay incredibly intolerant the past few days. More so than usual, I mean. This means that there is inevitably a group of people who is pissing me off. This post is dedicated to you, schmucks.



I’ve noticed an increased propensity for some people to explain away their bad behavior by saying, “Yeah. I’m an asshole. It’s just how I roll.” And you deserve to be punched in the face for it.


If you had any decency, you'd punch yourself.

If you had any decency, you’d punch yourself.



Here’s the deal: we’re all prone to bouts of dickish-ness. Dickiosity, if you will. That’s just a part of human nature and it is completely okay as long as you do what you can to keep it under control. Some people have a little bit of asshole in them. Some people have a lot of asshole in them.  Some people are just the whole ass.



I’m part of the middle category, in that I will say exactly what’s on my mind without a lot of concern for a person’s frail ego. Then there are the people in the third group who think it’s witty/edgy/funny to be a raging cock socket with no regard for rules or etiquette because some half-wit made the mistake of telling them that every little thing they do is magic, and your self-esteem demands that we acquiesce to your socially inept free spirit.


Fuck your self-esteem, dipshit.


You’re an asshole and that’s just how you roll? That’s not even a remotely acceptable excuse for behaving like a total jackass. Yes, you are an asshole. Congratulations on pinpointing the problem. Now put on your big kid panties and fix it, dumbass. If I wanted to coo and pander to some idiot with behavioral issues, I’d get a fucking puppy.


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