Re: In the Closet.

People!

It's July 10th. We haven't had coat type weather in almost three months, yet our closet is full of winter coats and jackets; and for reasons I can't comprehend, a plethora of fleece jackets, too. Fleece jackets are something I see in abundance when I head out west to visit my sister. In fact my sister, her husband and her son all own several fleece jackets a piece by Patagonia (The North Face is for sallies, she tells me). My sister refers to these fleece jackets of hers, as "bear suits." I have one, as well, but I keep it in Colorado, and I refer to it as my "ugly house-coat." 

I guess what I'm getting at is I'm surprised by the fleece jacket situation in the office closet. I don't even know the last time I saw a fleece jacket on someone in New York...oh, wait, yeah I do, it was a couple years ago: a frumpy woman asked me for directions, and she was not only sporting a fleece jacket, but a scrunchie and white socks with sandals, too. After I gave her directions, she practically took out two innocent hipsters as she was too busy to look up from her map of the city...yes, that was the last time.

I'm not going to ask to whom these fleece get-ups belong...I'm not even going to guess, because frankly, I can't picture any of you wearing one...OMG...I just complimented you guys. Either way, if you have any clothing in the closet, please remove it ASAP. Whatever is still there on Monday will be donated to charities here in the city. However, the fleece jackets will be packed up and shipped out to a charity in Utah, of course.

Thanks in advance.

Bisous,

Mandy.

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

Ali and I are discussing our 4th of July when Alex walks by my desk in a skin-tight, low-cut dress...

Me: Look at you walkin' around in your scantily clad-ness, Alex!

Alex: What does that mean?

Ali: Yeah, what does that mean? I've used it before, but I don't know what it means.

Me: It basically means she's dressed like a tramp...

Re: Pretty in Pink.

This day is so awesome so far! My sunburn is still in full effect, so I took a cab to work for the second time this week, because walking on these sunburned legs, is quite an effort...not to mention my low tolerance for pain.

Then I hit up the coffee cart out front of my office building to score myself my usual large iced coffee, when I was confronted by a person who reminded me why I don't like people so much. I stood in front of the cart patiently waiting for my coffee, when Shit for Brains stepped in front of me. "Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir," he said repeatedly like an annoying child trying to get its mother's attention, "Sir, Sir - I'm in a rush and need to pay for this juice now."

The coffee cart man ignored him, as I was clearly there first and my order was the priority of the moment. So again, "Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir! Please, just take this five and give me back my change - I'm in a rush!" yelled Shit for Brains.

"Oh, I guess you're the only one in a rush, huh?" I asked him.

I'm always surprised when people who are acting douchy seem surprised when their douchiness is pointed out to them. Shit for Brains looked somewhat shocked: "Yeah, I am the only that's in a rush," he said. Okay, first of all the pronoun in this case is "who" and not "that" unless of course he was acknowledging the fact that he's more of an "it" than a "person" - which would be good for him...because admitting it is half the battle.

Shit for Brains then grabbed a straw, bit off the end and let the paper (read: trash) fall to the sidewalk. "Oh, that's nice...you litter too," I said to him. At this point, Shit for Brains just stared at me with his mouth agape. I half expected him to call me a "bitch" or a "cunt" or something else equally unoriginal. I had flashbacks to that scene in Pretty in Pink when Molly Ringwald's character puts James Spader's character in his place and he quips, "You're a bitch. You know, you should really see a doctor about that condition of yours..." but no, Shit for Brains just stared at me. I immediately recognized the stare as one that was supposed to be intimidating, and had he been even remotely attractive or worthwhile, I might have been mildly intimidated, but the portly fella in his cargo shorts and Nikes just didn't scare me.

The coffee cart man finally gave Shit for Brains his change so the round puff could finally leave...he was in a rush after all. Before he left, Shit for Brains looked at me again, "You have a blessed day," he said.

I couldn't believe he was bringing God into this before noon on a Tuesday! "Yeah, I'm sure Jesus is a big fan of you," I said. After he left, I picked up his trash and threw it out. I paid for my iced coffee, scratched my sunburned legs and headed into the office building.

Yeah, this day is gonna be awesome...

Re: Wear Sunscreen.

It was a rough weekend. The vacation I took in NH wasn't quite up to par courtesy of Mother Nature. Next I caused a public breakdown of an old college acquaintance when I submitted his silly Facebook updates about his kids to STFU, Parents - I submitted them two months ago, but he just discovered them. Drama ensued, as things do with this particular fella. By the time all was said and done, I had agonized over the situation for a total of 28 hours out of my life, and we were no longer Facebook friends. Oh no! And to think I had a crush on this boy for like two years or something in college, all because he had the most extensive knowledge of music of any human being I had ever known. However, that was 12 years ago, and in those 12 years I've managed to find others (2, actually) who rival his vast music intelligence, and in doing so I have been able to quell my need to have deliciously picky music snobs in my life.

When the sun finally came out on Saturday, I made a beeline to the beach, sans sunblock, so I could make up for the last several days that had rained on my parade. Now, as I sit here writing this, I'm softly wincing at the pain I'm experiencing on my ass and legs after I dosed off in the sand. One would think I would've learned after a lifetime of sunburns, some of which that actually blistered, to smother myself in sunscreen, but no...I am a person who does not learn from her mistakes...

Another example of this was when I reached for a box cutter in the shipping room this morning and sliced open my hand...yet again. The blood was hard to decipher from my bright red sunburned hand, but since I was in even more pain than just seconds before the incident and there was blood all over the table, I was able to deduce what had happened. So perhaps I did weigh the pros and cons of suicide this morning so I wouldn't have to come into work today, but since I'm here, this means I opted against killing myself...today anyway. 

On one hand I'm glad the box cutters have been returned by whoever stole them weeks ago, but on the other hand, I'm kind of annoyed that no one thinks to not only close the cutters' blades, but also put the blade side down in the canister. I mean, I know I don't have a ton of fans in the office, but this is the third time I've almost sliced and diced my hand off since being hired last August. 

So let's try really, really hard to handle and put the box cutters away responsibly, okay? If I did end up being offed by a box cutter slice up, at least I'll get to relish in the fact that one of you would get nailed for manslaughter...food for thought...

xo.Mandy.

Re: Stranger Things Have Happened, Stranger Things Have Been Loved.

Just look at Doug II! Isn't he dashing standing there next to that random tube of chapstick? Isn't he just the type of fella you wanna take home and introduce to mom? He's a silent guy (how I prefer 'em), and an endless sources of fun (should I actually allow someone to play with him); and he's just about the swellest damn thing coming down the road!

It was not too long ago that I mourned the passing (read: thievery) of Doug I; but that which doesn't kill us, makes us stronger, yes? Yes! So here I am, back in smiley mode over Doug II, the rubber band ball of dreams...Granted, he's not quite the luscious size of Doug I, but in due time, my friends, in due time.

Please feel free to give Doug II a lil' love nudge on his vast collection of super awesome rubber bands whenever you pass by my desk. However, I do ask that you refrain from trying to feed him. Although he's the current love of my life (read: he's not gonna give me any grief), he technically doesn't have a mouth, so, you know, eating just isn't really going to work. He had pizza sauce on him last week...and I know it wasn't from me...I mean, there is a limit to my lunacy after all (read: I tried to give him a sip of iced coffee and created a mini-mess). Swoon...

xo.

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

Coworker Alex: Brr...I'm so cold...

Me: If you're so cold, why don't you put on your jacket, Alex?

Coworker Alex: Because I like it when my nipples are hard...I find it distracts people.

Re: The Ole Pump and Dump.

My sister had a baby in January. I first met him in April when he was four months old. Being a new mom who had to feed her kid constantly, she'd just whip out her boob and milk the baby anywhere...granted, not in public, but all over the house: during breakfast, during Law & Order, during an intense Scrabble match where I was clearly winning so this was obviously a ploy to distract me so I could lose...anywhere. On one occasion when she and I were going out for the day, she used a breast pump to extract the milk from her so my nephew's other grandmother, could feed him while we were gone. I saw the contraption used to do such things, and when my sister offered me the opportunity to see how it worked, I turned around in horror. I left the room, poured myself a glass of wine, and sat outside to wait for her...priorities...

I came back from visiting my sister the same week a coworker came back from her maternity leave. This particular coworker has a nanny to take care of her baby (and a nanny cam too, of course, that she watches obsessively all day long). While this coworker is in the office she has to pump her breast milk, and other days she has to "pump and dump"...she actually says to me: "Mandy, could you guard the door to the showroom so no one comes in? I need to pump and dump." On days she's not dumping, she messengers the milk to her apartment for her baby's consumption; on days she is dumping, she makes this huge production about what a waste it is and yadda yadda yadda look at me I have a baby and I keep my breast pump in the office because I have a baby and I want you all to know I have a baby because I'm annoying...yadda yadda yadda...my baby is three months old and already a genius...blah...

Although I keep it suppressed, I do have a maternal side. And although I go on and on about how I don't want a baby, I fear there may come a day that I'll actually want a little thing of my own whom I can mold into a mini-me of sorts...so I get that being a mom to a brand new little love nugget is a big deal...I have a dog, I get it...but seriously, let's try to be more subtle about the whole "pumping" thing, okay? I mean the machine has a vacuum switch...a VACUUM SWITCH, DAMMIT!

Thanks in advance, Pumpers!

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

While discussing engagement rings, the soon-to-be engaged Laura said to Ali: "O-M-G. I'm going to love wearing a ring. I have to admit I'm going to be a little bitchier."

Re: Grey Slacks.

According to the woman at the front desk in the lobby, we will be fined every time one of our food delivery guys uses the front door. Personally, I'm not sure how I feel about this...seems like we're living in a caste system if we start thinking such behavior is all right, if you ask me: the delivery guy can't even use the same elevator as the rest of us?! But I digress...

Upon further investigation (I always dreamed of being a special agent for the FBI), I was informed by the property manager that food delivery should have always been coming in through the Crosby freight entrance. However, due to laziness and apathy on the part of the security and maintenance departments in the building, the policy was never enforced. But now we got "Dee" down there, and Dee be in charge, yo. Dee is the (lovely?) woman who is now reigning over the lobby. You can't miss her: she's usually yelling at some poor messenger, texting on her pink Blackberry, and oh, she's the size of a small house...no, a van; yes, that's it...the size of a van, a fluffy van to be more precise, with an ever persistent camel toe thanks to those snazzy grey slacks. I wrote slacks!

Although the property manager asked kindly that we make an avid attempt to use the freight entrance address when placing food orders, it is not necessary. Seems the whole business about being fined is just Dee tossing around her weight in a sorry attempt to not only exert some sort of non-existent authority, but also give her life purpose. The way I see it, this job is the highlight of Dee's life...it's not going to get much better for Dee...Dee has reached the pinnacle of her existence; her dream job, if you will, is this fancy lobby job on Broadway in Soho...and girl got the slacks and navy blazer as proof, shoot!

I do not approve of Dee's bravado! Dee must be brought down! I say we continue to have our deliveries come in the front door...and the next time Dee tries to prevent us from enjoying our overpriced sandwiches or salads, I'll have a word with her...yeah, that's right...I'll have a word with her (please note the use of italics there).

There are very few people in this world who deserve to sit upon high horses and look down at the rest of us, and Dee is clearly not one of them...her slacks, on the other hand, are slightly more deserving...

xo.

Open Letter to the New Girl.

Dear New Girl:

Thank you! You just bumped me up on the attractive scale! Well, what I mean is your unconventional looks are going to be very kind to me should business pick up even more and we hire a dashing young lad who meets all my ridiculous requirements for love/like/tolerance what have you. (Read: he owns some obscure pretentious album that 98% of the world doesn't)

You see, I'm being told I don't fit the mold so well...at least not here in the office...and neither do you. And while I don't fit the mold for reasons that differ from yours, it's safe to say that should you and I be the last women left on earth, I absolutely will get picked before you for sex/procreation/orgies what have you. (Read: Billy Crudup will have to choose me over you if there's only three of us left)

While I'm sure your 60-year old boyfriend finds your 1993 hairstyle something dreamy and swoon-worthy, it's not. I mean, we're all entitled to our preferences...but I'm of the opinion that opinions can be wrong, unless that opinion is mine, of course. Your hair is bad...it's been decided. And those leggings...wow. I think your friends and family are VERY irresponsible for not telling you the truth...FYI. Who wears leggings on their first day to a new place of employment anyway? If you're game, we'd love to sit down with you and discuss appropriate attire for a girl of your, um, interesting body shape.

Fuck, I know I'm not perfect...and I have a whole slew of friends who love to remind me of this fact on a daily basis...maybe you can borrow my friends? Granted, they're kinda snobby and at their worst, painfully evil assholes, but at least they're honest...making me consider suicide kinda honest sometimes, but still...a true friend stabs you in the front, right?

And if you hear I'm some sort of bitter, angry girl simply because I'm still fucking part time, can't afford the rent on my one bedroom East Village apartment, and have had to give up my nightly wine drinking habit because of lack of funds, it's a lie. I'm not bitter. I don't do bitter. I don't really do angry either. I do mean, and I do it well. Oh, and I hold grudges, like, forever...like multiple, consecutive lifetimes...and while my meanness is usually ill-directed, and is just a way for me to get a cheap thrill, it still exists like a deadly plague....just so you know.

Here, I drew a picture of you yesterday in between my usual office duties that are both challenging and mentally stimulating for me...

xo.

Mandy.

Stupid Conversation of the Day.

The Shipping Room - Ali, Alex and Mandy are chatting while Ali tapes outgoing packages.

Ali: Mandy told me she was going to be mean to the new girl.

Alex: Really? I’m so surprised…she’s never mean.

Me: No no…Ali, wrote me an email and told me that we should be mean to the new girl because she’s ugly.

Ali: Oh, yeah…I did! Did you look her up on Facebook? She is ugly!

Alex: And her boyfriend is ugly. And old. Old and ugly. My fiancé is old, but at least he’s not ugly.

Me: And he’s rich, so it doesn’t really matter what Steve looks like, does it, Alex?

Alex: He was rich…but then he lost that job. Look at this ring [showing off her engagement ring]…it’s not even three carats? It's embarrassing.

Me: You’re such an asshole.

Ali: I hate this box – it won’t close. [while taping up a package for a messenger]

Alex: You hate that box because it’s not Mandy’s box. Haha…

Me: What the fuck is wrong with you?

Ali: Ew…Alex!

Enter Laura with the day's thought-provoking question.

Laura: Okay – ready?! If you had to have sex with coworkers Michael or Stephen, who would you choose?

Alex: Mandy – I choose Mandy and her box!

Me: Why are you such a lesbian lately?

Laura: I’m being serious…

Ali: I want Wendy's for lunch!

Exit Ali to further ponder her lunch options.

Alex: Michael…he’s ugly, but rich. Who’s Stephen?

Me: The old Irish guy who has teeth like Shane MacGowan.

Alex: Who’s Shane MacGowan?

Laura: You’re dating a guy named Shane?

Me: No! I wouldn’t date an Irishman – they have fucked up teeth. I’m picky about teeth. Shane MacGowan was in the Pogues. Alex, he’s like Bono except ugly and old and is missing pretty much all but one tooth.

Alex: Oh, he’s in U2?

Me: No…I said the Pogues.

Laura: You didn’t answer me: Would you have sex with Michael or Stephen?

Alex: She’d choose me...what's a Pogue?

Me: I’d choose Alex or suicide.

Laura: Suicide isn’t an option – it’s either Michael or Stephen.

Me: Suicide has to be an option...there has to be a third option. In fact, I'll kill myself now just in case I am ever forced to decide between the two of them for fornication purposes.

Laura: You’re so mean.

Alex: Dirty Sanchez…

Me: What?

Alex: I bet the new girl likes the Dirty Sanchez.

Laura: I hate the new girl. Did you see her Facebook? She’s so ugly.

Me: Um, we covered this five minutes ago…

Laura: Really? Look at how I shimmy! [Laura breaks out in a shimmy]

Enter Ali again after a brief altercation with a stupid supervisor.

Ali: I don't know if you guys know this, but she's really stupid.

Alex: Who? Mandy? She's just a dirty slut. 

Me: Alex, I have half a croissant on my desk...why don't you eat it so those laxatives you took this morning won't be a waste...

Re: You Could Either Be Successful, Or Be Us.

There are few things throughout the day I thoroughly adore:

...the walk to work; not because of where I'm going, but because I like pretending I'm in a music video while listening to my iPod.

...smiling at the coffee cart guy and not having to tell him what I want every morning, because he just knows.

...logging into my gmail and reading the words of day courtesy of dictionary.com and m-w.com, my father's quote of the day, and the NY Times headlines.

...the turkey sandwiches I bring from home that I've started putting in the toaster oven so the cheese melts and they end up being kind of a poor man's panini.

...feeling holier than thou whenever any of you open your mouth about anything at all.

....harassing Swede via gchat about my mundane workday even though he's clearly engaged in job searches and excessive movie watching.

...people's Facebook status updates, especially the really pompous ones, or even more so, the witty ones.

...my female friends who are constantly checking on me via gchat as if I'm some wounded bird that lacks backbone and callousness...and if I'm idle for more than 20 minutes, you better believe Jennie Klein is convinced I've offed myself, or was finally fired.

...reprimanding coworker Joe for going through the papers on my desk yet again.

...stealing coveted office supplies: extra sticky Post-It Notes and black Sharpies, to be precise.

...the walk home...

Yes, it's the walk home I love the most. Not just because I'm leaving this office behind, but because I turn on my iPod, run down my bands and stop at Belle and Sebastian: my ideal end of day walking home music.

However, on several occasions in the last few weeks, this bliss has been interrupted by one or more of you. I beg of you, if you ever see me outside this office, please don't acknowledge me...I wouldn't acknowledge you, so why must you do it to me? Whether I'm in the hallway, or half a block away from our building, it doesn't matter...just keep walking. I really don't want to have to stop, pull my earphones out, and talk to you about malarkey we could've already covered during hours when I'm actually obligated to be civil to you. Understand? It's not personal, really it isn't...I just prefer silence when it comes to others.

In the words of Andy Warhol: "The less something has to say, the more perfect it is."

Learn it. Love it. Live it.

Thank you.

Mandy.

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

Coworker Alex: I hate you.

Me: I don't care.

Coworker Alex: I bet in high school you were that mean alternative girl who thought she was better than everybody else. I bet you listened to Nirvana or some grunge shit.

Me: So? That's better than being the Jappy bitch that you were...the kind who threw Twinkies at the fat chicks...

Coworker Alex: I wouldn't do that...I'd eat the Twinkies myself then throw them up...

Me: Oh, yeah...I forgot you're not only the office bitch, but the office bulimic, too.

Re: Crankfest 2009.

I read recently that women tend to be much meaner to other women than they are to men. Women would rather see their fellow sisters fail, than succeed...we're just inherently mean and catty and bitchy and are more likely to get involved in pissing matches than men. As an office of all women (except one male CEO, and two gay men), our estrogen level is painfully high at all times...it's terrifying, to say the least.

I'm not sure what's going on with us, but we've all been ridiculously cranky lately. I realize three of us are preggers, so that's created some major attack of the hormones and mood swings, but what's the excuse for the rest of us?

In an effort to exercise my proverbial heart more (as opposed to just leaving drunken voicemails for long lost friends and lovers), I'm going to make an effort all day to be sweet. That's right, I said sweet. I'm going to give everyone at least one compliment. I tried out this technique on Johanna last week, and she seemed to really like it...and not only did she like it, but I felt quite warm and cozy too.

The weather is going to be soggy again today, so let's try to brighten our spirits by being nice. Let's tell the pregnant women they're glowing, let's stop giving each other the middle finger and dropping the c-bomb, let's share our snacks, let's tell each other how funny and smart we are...let's be liars, shall we? It will feel really good, I promise.

Love You,

Mandy.

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

Coworker Alex: Why are you smiling?

Me: I don't know. I guess I'm happy.

Coworker Alex: No, seriously, what did you do? You must have done something evil.

Me: I didn't. I'm just happy. I must have gotten a sufficient amount of sleep or something.

Coworker Alex: Well, quit it. It's creeping me out.

Me: Actually, I had a dream about you the other night and I'm just remembering it now.

Coworker Alex: Really? Did we have sex in it?

Me: Of course...on the deck of this big ship.

Coworker Alex: Was I any good?

Me: You were awesome.

Coworker Alex: Do you think I look like a cancer patient?

(silence)

Coworker Alex: Seriously, look at my hair...it's sooo like a cancer patient.

Me: I don't think stereotypical cancer patients have much hair.

Coworker Alex: Well, look at my outfit...totally a cancer patient....

Me: Um, yeah, I have to take this call...