Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

Stupid Coworker (who was born and raised in NJ): 'I just had a 20-minute conversation with [older gentleman coworker]. He was a roadie for Bon Jovi!'

Me: 'Yeah, I thought I heard him mention something about Bon Jovi.'

Stupid Coworker: '[Older gentleman coworker] is so hot now!'

Me: 'Ew. He's gross and old - if he'd been the lead singer of a moderately famous band, then maybe I could force myself to find him attractive.'

Stupid Coworker: 'But a roadie for Bon Jovi - that's the hottest thing I've ever heard!'

Me: 'You weren't even a zygote when Bon Jovi's first album came out...'

Stupid Coworker: 'So? He's so hot...I'd fuck him...'

Me: 'You are why people make fun of people from Jersey...just so you know.'

Re: Putting Rumors to Bed.

I am shy. My friends do not agree…they seem to conveniently forget how it was when we first met before I became comfortable with them. I know I’m shy, because I can feel myself being awkward during first meetings – I either incessantly compliment, even though I don’t mean a word of it, or I say ‘that’s funny’ to everything…it’s just a way to fill up space for me.

So when I interview for a job, the combination of the first meeting and the stress of being put on display forces me into a downward spiral of faux pas comments. The interviewer tells me how the position is currently open because the last Office Manager was fired after stealing the petty cash for her abortion which was subsequent to her short-lived affair with the Mexican handyman, and I say ‘that’s funny,’ but not before complimenting her on her horrific choice in earrings. I always catch myself, after the fact of course, but by then the damage is already done. I know I’ve fucked up so I begin to stutter, I stammer out words that aren’t real, words I only use in familiar situations with friends and before the twenty or thirty minutes are up, I’ve not only made the interviewer uncomfortable with my own uncomfort, but I’ve mentally and physically exhausted myself to such a degree that I’ll be in bed by 8pm. And this is not an exaggeration, as I have never exaggerated a word in my life.

So my interview yesterday was in Dumbo, Brooklyn. I don’t venture to Brooklyn very often. I hang around Williamsburg quite a bit in the summer and I occasionally head over to Park Slope to visit my married friends who have babies and stuff, but that's about it. But today…omg omg omg! I fell madly in love with Dumbo! So in love that I want to roll around on the sidewalks covering the pavement in kisses! My interview, that actually went very well, came to an end just as the sun was setting over the city, so I wandered on down to the East River and was so moved by the beauty of the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges, the city skyline, the way the bright orange sun reflected off the windows of the buildings, the Statue of Liberty off in the distance like some sort of picture perfect postcard…I actually started to cry. Not full on sobbing, of course, (I save that for into my pillow late at night), but slight tears. There are lots of things we could blame for my outward pouring of emotion, but let’s not ruin this with a bunch of talk and assumptions…

My point? Yes, I actually do have one: the rumors are true; I am looking for another job. I know you probably think it’s the Uggs and lack of personality around here that are sending me on my way, but no…it’s just this part-time situation isn’t really working for me, nor my rent, nor my student loans, nor my Balthazar coffee addiction. However, this other company, along with it’s bad ass location, didn’t have a single employee in Uggs…nope, not one! Instead, I saw lots of Chuck Taylors, girls and boys in black frame specs, lil’ cowboy shirts and lots of bedhead…so it’s safe to say, I was at home.

Crossing My Fingers that I Get the Fuck Out of Here,
Ms. Paunts.

Re: Lactose Intolerant Kind of Love.

Dear Darling Coworkers:

I would like to apologize for my incessant ditziness lately. I fear this is a result of the issue going on in my apartment. I have bcc'd you on the email I am sending to my Super in regards to this situation. Please read below:

Robert, I would like to address the fact that I have called you four times in the past week regarding the fact that you are clearly heating my apartment with cream cheese frosting. I realize we are in a recession, but cream cheese frosting? You couldn't come up with anything else?

I have been living with the cream cheese frosting smell in my bedroom for a couple weeks now, but it wasn't until last week that the smell became so nauseating that I actually considered banging my head against the wall until I knocked myself out. I've had friends over and have made them stand next to the pipe until they agreed they can smell it, too. I've also washed the pipe over and over again in the hopes of getting rid of the smell in case it was I who, perhaps, started this issue while sleep walking with a bowl of cream cheese frosting - although I don't sleep walk, nor do I usually have cream cheese frosting on hand.

I realize things are strained with us right now, Robert, since that incident where after putting in a new sink, you came up behind me and kissed my neck. Hubbell the Wonder Dog almost killed you for that move. There was also the time you heard me crying on the phone a couple months back, and you were kind enough to knock on my door to check on me (I never asked why you were outside my door, but I digress)...you came in my apartment, made yourself comfortable on my couch then just never left. I finally had to actually leave my own apartment as a way to trick you into thinking I had some place to go. I stood on the corner like a cheap $10 whore for twenty minutes until I knew for sure you were long gone.

I'll be the first to admit that the thought has crossed my mind - you do not look like any Super I have ever met: your dark hair, blue eyes, the way you look at me as if you're about to devour me whole...oh, yes, the idea is definitely one with which I like to flirt, but I like the idea of lots of things. The reality is you asked me 'What's that?' when I explained that my tattoo is a Vladimir Nabokov sketch...Nabokov isn't quite a 'what,' dear Robert. There's also that whole issue of the gold crucifix around your neck, the one that reflects light blindingly so in all directions...these two items are not only unsettling, but definitely a killer of any and all sexual desire.

The cream cheese smell in so ingrained in my thoughts and being that now I'm starting to smell it at work, smell it on the sidewalk, I smell it on everyone I meet! I fear it's toxic and rotting my brain - Robert, it took me fucking two hours the other day to alphabetize 50 orders before I realized there were no letters to alphabetize, only numbers!

Robert! Do something! If you need a list of suggestions as to what to use to heat my apartment, I will be more than happy to provide you with one (hot fudge, maybe?)...but seriously, either return my calls or get over here ASAP, because awkwardness is going to be the least of your problems if you don't...

Thanks.

Mandy.

(oh, and you know what building and apartment number it is so quit saying you don't!)

Re: Analogy is a Noun.

People:

I wanted to take a moment to go over the changes that have taken place in the office in the past couple of months. Daily, I’m asked questions to which you should know the answers by now. I’m going to use the simplest words and analogies to try and convey exactly what you should be expecting here in the office since the [insert scary sounds that indicate horror and/or turmoil]...recession.

First of all, recession, according to m-w.com, means the act or action of receding; withdrawal…however, in our case, it’s the third noun down: a period of reduced economic activity. I know some of you will ask what a ‘noun’ is, so let’s just get it out of the way now – a noun is simply a word that isn’t a verb or adjective…if this leads to further confusion, then please Google your questions. I can’t really go over all the parts of speech with you right now, or ever, for that matter.

1. We are no longer buying paper cups, paper bowls or paper plates – so please stop asking. This decision is not only in response to the recession, but also for the sake of the environment. The environment is, basically, the earth, the air, the ground, the ocean…excessive trash is bad for the environment. Bad is the opposite of good. Opposite means that something is completely unlike something else. At $400 bucks a month in paper supplies, it was definitely an expensive that could be cut. Cut means to reduce. Reduce, similar to reduction is the exact opposite of what’s been going on with your personal collections of Ugg boots...despite the recession.
2. As addressed last week, the cleaning people are now coming only three times a week. This means when you dispose of your half eaten salad in the garbage can under your desk on Tuesday after complaining yet again, what a pig you are for eating that much, the rotting lettuce etc, will still be there on Wednesday. Don’t come to me every Wednesday morning and ask me why your garbage wasn’t taken out – because we’ve been over this six Wednesdays in a row now. You are responsible for throwing out your own garbage on days when the cleaning people are not coming. Throwing out is what you do with your Tory Burch flats at the end of every season, despite the fact that you only wore them twice. It means to get rid of something you no longer want, or wouldn’t be caught dead in a season after the fact.
3. I am part time now. Part time is the kinda like the opposite of full time. It means that my hours have been cut to four hours a day instead of eight. Since my hours here are limited, this means I only have half the amount of time to do everything that I used to do in eight hours. I have half the amount of time to distribute your faxes, half the amount of time to do the mail, half the amount of time to talk on gchat with my friends about how half-witted you all are, and half the amount of time to answer your absurd, repetitive questions. I looked up half on m-w.com and I fear the definition will only confuse you…but basically, if you ask me any of these questions again, and I reach over and rip just one of your Ugg boots off your perfectly pedicured feet, beat you senseless with it, then dispose of it, you would then have just a half pair of Uggs, as the other half would be gone, therefore leaving you without a whole pair.

I understand that these changes are wrecking havoc on your nerves, but we really need to just suck it up and adapt. Havoc is what happened when your fiancé proposed to you with a ring last fall that wasn’t up to your carat standards: the way you cried for days, broke every plate in the kitchen, denied him sex and refused to come into work until he got you a ‘bigger’ ring – I mean, everyone else in the office is walking around with three plus carat engagement rings, so why shouldn’t you? Adapt is what you should’ve done when he handed you that 2.90 carat ring…and is a word of which you probably don’t need to know the meaning.

Please know that these changes are just the beginning. I will do my best to try to make these transitions as easy as possible for you to comprehend. Comprehend is just another word for understand. As things come up, I will email you about them, and if need be, I’ll even insert diagrams to make sense of it all. Perhaps, even a pie chart – they’re round and colorful and will make you coo and momentarily forget about the fact that your 100k wedding has been postponed…for reasons you still can’t comprehend.

Thanks!
Mandy.

Stupid Coworker's Quote of the Day.

According to Laura, Ali said: 'We have a client coming into town and we're sending a car out to get him. He's flying into Kennedy airport - is that the same as JFK airport?'

Re: How to Use a Garbage Bag.

Everyone:

Since we've had to cut back on the office cleanings to three times a week, we've been forced to do things ourselves. I know...the audacity! 

When I come around at the end of the day and hand you a new trash bag for your bucket, please don't just throw it in the trash can - it defeats the whole purpose. What you're supposed to do, is open the bag up, and then place it in the trash can...I know it's a weird concept for some of you, but the bag is supposed to catch the trash, while the bucket part is actually just supposed to provide support for the bag. I was scared I wouldn't be clear enough with this process, so I have provided a link below. I was listening to the new Matt Pond PA album while I found this, so I didn't really listen to what the guy is saying (I also saw the white socks on his feet and immediately judged him...I mean, he knew it was going online, you think he would've put on something more colorful...polka dots at least), but the lil' movie is definitely quite informative for those of you whom garbage bag usage and placement is brand new.

Thanks!

Mandy.

Re: I Make People Uncomfortable.

Darlings:

I was demoted. No no , my title was not taken away from me, but I was cut to part time. To recap, I was laid off in July, I managed to find another job, and less than six months later, I was cut to part time…this of course, is due to the economic situation and not a lack of effort on my part.

I was cut to part time on a Friday. The first person I told was Swede…because I felt he’d be more sympathetic than my mother and father who are both very much employed and who have been cursing the day I moved to New York City.

Not only was I cut to part time, but the company laid off some others that day…even one of the Mean Girls…

I was obviously upset and shaken by the decision…as we all were. A group of us decided we’d go out and drown our sorrows in lots of alcohol. I took the elevator down the four floors to the sidewalk. My eyes still puffy from the few tears that I shamefully shed, I remarked to a coworker: ‘I don’t fucking care. I don’t need this place. I’m a writer.’ We walked across Prince, over Bowery, and into one of my favorite parts of the city – the Lower East Side. I hadn’t had dinner, or even lunch for that matter, so by 8pm, I was more than intoxicated…I was gripping the walls and wondering why they were so good looking. True to form, I bailed without warning and headed straight to where my ex-boyfriend tends bar. Timothy, poor thing, has been putting things into perspective for me for years…yep, years…like more than one, but multiple. As my sister does weekly, I was reminded by Timothy that I’m not defeated, I’m not flawed – at least not uncharmingly so – but rather a pain in the ass. I have a job, when so many don’t. I have my health, when people don’t. I have this entire group of people who love me and fight for me, despite the fact that I am clearly a pain in the ass.

I went home that night intoxicated. I woke the next morning hung over. I laid in my bed too long and listened to every sad song I own on repeat even longer. I hid under my covers and vowed revenge. I stood at my stove scrambling eggs and vowed starvation after this final meal.

When I went to work on Monday morning at 11am – since I am part time – I was summoned by my immediate boss. I was told that my sarcasm isn’t appreciated. Seems, my comment from Friday night...the whole: ‘I don’t fucking care. I don’t need this place. I’m a writer,’ was ungrateful. Ungrateful? I won’t get into who regarded this comment as such, or the fact that her brother-in-law is the owner of the company, or that her father is an extremely well known news anchorman who if I just mentioned her last name you’d be like…oh, really!? You work with his daughter?! I won’t address the fact that I’m sure she alone makes five times what I do, or that her husband probably makes even more, and that her trust fund, based on who her father is, is probably through the fucking roof…so what the fuck does she know about grateful and ungrateful and coming up with money for next month's rent…I won’t mention any of that, and especially not sarcastically so…

I was sent back to my desk. Not more than an hour later, I was told by another coworker that my mere presence made ‘her uncomfortable.’ I thought it had everything to do with the zit on my cheek that had decided to pop up over the weekend thanks to stress and tears, but no. Seems my mere existence is a reminder of the economic plight of this country…this makes her sad. Yes, I make people sad.

To sum up: I’m alive, and I’m naturally sarcastic – these are two things I can’t change…well, at least not without upsetting like three people by offing myself…but yet these two things are upsetting to the people with whom I work…

Yes, I have a job – part time – but I’m of the suspicion that my coworkers are hoping I will kill myself so I can stop being a reminder. Instead, I have decided to wear bright colors everyday, to be overly vocal, positive and cheery…in the process, I will die a little inside, but not nearly as much as it will kill them, and there will be much pleasure in that fact for me.

I’m not defeated, I’m simply angry. And I shall relish in this fact...
xo.
Mandy.