Office Party

Lat year for my office Halloween party I went as "lunch". It took 3 hours and 10 Trader Joe's bags to actually make that thing, and I was jsut so so so so proud of it.

...But what the hell am I supposed to wear this year? People are actually saying, "I can't wait to see what Katie comes in," because I'm the crazy weirdo in the office.

I'm going to go to those Halloween Super Stores after work today in hopes of finding something seriously discounted...but I'm not really intending to actually find anything good.

Here's the thing: I'm hearing that this year there may be a $100 prize for the best costume.

PLEASE.HELP.

Oh, Katie

I took my lunch break at 10:30 to buy snakes for Halloween. I thought I was being smart and beating the lunch rush. No. I was not. The line wrapped around the inside of the store. There were loud fucking kids and people who spoke no English all over the place. The only way to do battle against these sorts of people is to be an annoying white man, so I called Mike and talked loudly on the phone for about half of the 40 minute line, and I basked in the irritated, hateful glares of my fellow patrons. Score one for the white man!

Then, when I was driving back from lunch, Brand Boulevard was closed because there was a bomb in a building or something. I work on Brand Boulevard. Ugh. I wanted to fucking die from the traffic.

Side Note:

I was sitting in the office much later this afternoon when we found out that the closure of Brand was a bomb threat (and thus probably the fault of a white or arab man), not black people shooting each other again (which was the obvious assumption)…and I almost talked a manager of another department into evacuating us TWO HOURS AFTER THE WHOLE THING WAS OVER. He said he would do it if Kris would run through the lobby screaming, “I’m on fire!”

Kris is a selfish bastard.

I finally got to work (an hour and fifteen minutes after clocking out), and realized, while in the elevator, that one of the snakes was hooked onto my purse. I set it on my desk and forgot it was even there.

Until Suzy and Carol came over to my desk to discuss Halloween (girls love this shit), and they noticed my snake.

So Suzy and I realized that our mission—should we choose to accept it—was to freak out as many people as humanly possible over the next few days.
There’s a girl in accounting who is seriously annoying. She’s one of those retards who leave clients messages that run too long, and she has to call back to leave a second message to sum-up and apologize. Obviously this girl was our first victim. The girl has an inkling that I H.A.T.E. her (I give her “the look” a lot), so it was up to Suzy to carry out the nefarious scheme. She waited until accounting girl was looking in a mirror and playing with her hair, then set the snake on her shoulder. The girl patted it with her hand for a second, became absolutely horrified, tilted the hand mirror so she could see what she was holding, and SCREAMED. I mean, we’re talking Janet Leigh in the shower screaming. It was one of the greatest moments of my entire life.

--

I wish I could just wear my Sexy Cinderella costume to all 3 parties instead of just one, because now I’m thinking I don’t want to be Electra…mostly because Mike, who is 41 and literate, had no idea who she is…so no one will even get it. The idea of having to explain my witty costume to so many people is just horrific…So now I’m using the same costume, but going as Cleopatra…with 2 snakes biting my breast, since that’s how Shakespeare says she killed herself.
To this end, I dyed my hair dark brown and chopped it to my shoulders last night. And wasted my lunch break on snake-buying.

I’m an idiot.

Things I hate

You know who I hate?

The people at those fucking kiosks in the mall.

I do not want you to give me a lavender hand massage. I do not want you to clean my jewelry. I do not want you to scratch my head with that spider thing. I do not want my hair straightened. I do not want to make a helicopter fly up, up, up.

…but most importantly, I did not drop that scarf. That is your scarf. You’re trying to sell it to me. I see your game; I know that you want to hook me in with your sexily accented, “you dlop tis?”, and frankly, I’m insulted. I probably own 50 silk scarves. I love them, and wear them on my head all weekend. Your scarf was ugly—no no, not even ugly; it was hideous. I own a blue and burgundy scarf with pictures of big clocks and chains all over it, and I am telling you that your scarf was tacky. Think about that. Just get the fuck out of my way with your hideous head coverings and let me enter Sephora so I may buy the palest shade of foundation ever conceived by god or man.

Oh, and calling me "pretty lady" won't work, either. I own a mirror; I know I'm pretty--I always have been-- and I am not flattered. Work on getting a better sales pitch than the guy leaning out his truck window, ok, hon?

Side Note:

We walked by the Halloween store, and the hideous mannequin in the window was wearing a Tinkerbelle costume. About 10 seconds after we passed it, Laura said, “I kind of want to claw my eyes out now.”

Why I Love My Sarah

A while back, Mike asked me whether I thought I would be friends with my sisters if we weren’t related, and I said absolutely…even though we are So.Different.

…Especially Sarah and me. See, I’m very liberal, and my only conservative tendencies are…well, Goldwater Conservative things, like believing that the government should not interfere int eh lives of the citizens any more than is absolutely necessary.

Sarah is an Ann Coulter, Bill O’Reilly, Fox News Republican, and I genuinely loathe those people. I honestly believe that if you follow their bullshit ideas there must be something seriously wrong with you.

So how could Sarah and I be friends?

I just got an email in a thread with her and Skye, and in that email I found the key to our friendship:

When Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix came out, Skye couldn’t afford to buy it right away, so Sarah downloaded it and copied & pasted every single page—all 800-odd—into emails. Just so Skye could read it. I mean...that’s not even nice, you know? It’s fucking…the sweetest thing I think I’ve ever heard.

So there you have it.

I love you, sister!

Dear Woman Who Won’t Shut Up About Her Stupid Fucking Kid,

We all know that you think your daughter is a genius. We all know how funny you think it is when she says things like, “Get with the program, Mom.” Guess how we know. No, really—guess. Take a fat fucking guess how the hell we know that you are amazed by every little thing your daughter does. That’s right: because you tell us.

Your daughter sounds like a moron, which is just shocking considering your staggering intellect.
Let me break this down for you:

1) She will not win the national spelling bee. I know she won her class spelling bee because she studied real hard, but the she LOST the one for the fourth graders from her school. I mean, she couldn’t even beat the 6 other retarded 9-year-olds from her grade. STOP TELLING ME SHE IS PROBABLY GOING TO WIN NATIONALS NEXT YEAR.

2) No one cares that your daughter is the only student in her class with two “jobs” because she was such a good hall monitor they made her a classroom monitor as well. To be honest with you, this little girl of yours sounds like a real douche. Once a rat, always a rat, and rats don’t have friends.

3) The snobby, rude little comments she directs your way are not endearing. They really, really, really aren’t. She is a spoiled little brat, and probably has no friends and will die alone…which brings me to

4) That face. Seriously. I know that all parents think their children are perfect and beautiful and all that (I like to think this won’t be true of me, by the way—I’ll love my children enough not to need to lie to myself about their attributes), but she looks like her head was attacked by a flock of rabid bulldogs.

Now that you have been equipped with this knowledge, you are to refrain from boring me with asinine stories about your little moron. Seriously. I don’t care how Asian she is, she’s just not a genius. She maybe be one of the only two Asian girls in America who are both ugly and retardedly stupid…but them’s the cards she was dealt.

Seriously. Never, ever, ever speak to me about your fucking child again. Ever. Ever ever ever.

Best Regards,

A Concerned Co-worker

I’m going to Mike’s agent’s Halloween party Saturday night, and I’ve been really struggling with finding a costume…the last night when I was going through my closet to find my glass slippers I came across my wedding dress…which looks kind of like a Greek goddess gown…so I’m going as Electra. Why Electra, you ask? Why not Medea, or Antigone, or Athena, or Venus…? I have to go as Electra because my date is 41, and I really need to make the “Daddy issues” joke before anyone else can, you know?

So last night I was watching Heroes (So.Fucking.Good. I've only seen an episode and a half, and I am completely hooked) when I got a text message. So here's how my text conversation began:

?: "HI there-how r u?"
K: I’m well. Who is this?

Side Note: I hate text messaging because I can’t stand to use the shitty grammar required to respond with any amount of speed.

?: Rolls royce-very shy blonde guy!
K: [ugh. That fucking douche from Friday night.] Right—because the car is the important thing. Seriously, I’m rolling my eyes at you right now [it took me like, 25 minutes to type all that into my phone].
?: I was trying to help you remember me-did u get my email today?
K: I did.
?: And u didn’t write back because…..
K: I was busy.

I’ll spare you the rest. Seriously, this guy is 39 years old, and he’s trying to ask me out with text messages about his car. And for me this isn’t like, oh look at our witty banter! See how we argue but we’re really in love…just like a screwball comedy!” I am genuinely irritated by him…mostly because he seems to be one of those guys who womanize to make up for their insecurities. Add the Rolls and Porsche in there, and you’ve got some serious overcompensation.

More importantly, I think I’m going to cut my hair short and dye it dark again. I’m tired of the blonde-ish light brown thing. I’m going as Cinderella for JoJo’s Halloween party, though, so I want to wait until after that.

Why Me?

So Friday night I went out to dinner with a friend. She invited a friend of hers, and the plan was for him to stay with us for maybe an hour or so while we waited for our table (we had reservations, but the wait there is pretty horrendous regardless). I don’t know what came over me, but…well, you know how every now and then you meet someone who just really needs to be treated like an asshole? Like, the guy who thinks he can get any woman he wants because he’s dated a lot of actresses or whatever? This was that guy. I was so.bitchy. to him. Plans ended up changing, and he stayed for dinner with us. Now, he was a super prick to me as well, but I gave much better than I got (shocking, huh?)...and I assumed that we just mutually disliked eachother. Afterwards, we all went out to a bar, and we didn’t leave until it closed. All in all, a fun night.

On Saturday, Laura and I went to a Peter S. Beagle book signing, which was wonderful. He read from his new collection of short stories, and I got to talk to him and his manager afterwards. His manager is really, really nice.

Saturday night Mike and I went to a pumpkin carving party (I got third place! Yay!) until like, midnight-ish, then headed out to a cocktail party a friend of his was having. I met some really great people at both…and then yesterday Laura and I went to the mall and just sort of hung out.

So this morning I came in to work, and guess who I had an email from? Yeah, the guy I was rude to all Friday night. I’d given him my card at the beginning of the night because I’m in sales and that’s kind of what you do…but now things that I’d written off as his being an asshole started coming back to me…like when he asked me, “So when we go out together, are you going to be this bitchy to me?” And I’d rolled my eyes and said, “Honey, I can promise you that any time I see you I’ll be bitchy.” …but now I realize he actually meant the “when we go out” part. I had skipped right over that and gone to the "You're a bitch" part.

Since when am I so terrible at reading people? Why would anyone be as much a glutton for punishment as he apparently is? Does he really think I don't know that he's only after me because I'm the one he can't have...and that he'd be bored of it as soon as I caved? I mean, I was bored of it the second I met him (he fed me a cheesy pick-up line about my legs). And how on earth am I supposed to respond to his email?

Ugh.

I hate my life.

I'm an Asshole

When Greg came back from lunch today he said, “Honey, I’m home…how’s Junior?” just as he has every day for the 3 and a half months I’ve been working here. I am almost out of funny responses. I got lucky this week, though, because I happen to know that his son, Ryan, has an ear infection…so every day I just come up with increasingly horrific ear-related deaths for our fictitious offspring. I know, right? There’s no way I’m not going to hell.

Further Validation

I went to Bookfellows on my lunch break. I less than three that store so, so much. The owner, Christine, gave me advice on which editions of each of Peter Beagle’s books I should get signed as gifts for people, and we had a great time chatting about this and that, when suddenly she shattered all the fun.
C: You know, I haven’t seen your husband in here in a wh—
K: Is this about that Star Wars Collectors’ book you ordered? Is it in? He and I actually aren’t—we’ve decided—we’ve separated. And he’s living out of state.
C: …
K: I thought he was going to discuss his moving with you.
C: …
K: I’ll get his address and phone number to you so you can work out all the details about payment and everything.
C: …
K: …
C: I’m so sorry. That is just so, so sad…I like you both so much.
K: Well, so do we…it just didn’t make sense for us to be together anymore…I mean, last time we came in here together we had already separated. We’re still friends. And it’s really not that sad… [My heart is made of coal]
C: [looking through the books I’ve chosen for purchase] Of course you know about William Goldman. Most people your age don’t, you know. And Neil Simon…Kurt Vonnegut….you have exquisite taste.
K: [I am going to have to rent a storage unit just to contain my engorged ego] I…uh…well, I used to act, so—
C: And you ex-husband is getting a Star Wars book. Of course.
[There is a moment of companionable silence while she rings me up. Then her husband, Malcolm, walks up from the back of the store. ]
M: Katie! Been a while!
K: Sorry, I’ve been really busy…
M: [shoving my books in a bag] Wow, you really cleaned us out of Goldman this time, huh? Your husband ever read any of this, or does he just look at the pictures? [Laughs at his cleverness]
C: …!
K …
M: …?
K: Nathan doesn’t know how to read.

Laura and I are Retarded

No, seriously.
We went to Target last night to get a blender and some Pyrex because mine were inexplicably missing (this is pretty common right now because Nathan just kind of took whatever he wanted, and I can't remember what I should have (if I'd just actually look hard enough), what is still in storage in Kentucky, and yadda yadda yadda)

Then we went to the grocery store to get everything we needed so I could prep for the meal tonight (I'm having people over for enchiladas, margaritas, and apple pie).

All good so far.

1) We got home, actually looked at the counter, which we'd each cleaned twice this week, and saw the blender right there in the corner. Let me repeat that: the blender was ON THE COUNTER. How is that even possible? For like, a month now I've been convinced that I don't have a blender. How could I completely overlook it like that? We wrote our shopping list, which included the blender, in the kitchen. And in order for both of us to fit in my matchbox-sized kitchen, one of us was probably wedged in NEXT TO it.

Side note: I told Mike about this, and this was his response:

I have a theory about your blender situation. (And I like that you have a "blender situation.") Anyway, I think aliens hide our shit and then put it back a few minutes later just to fuck with us. I've searched for things a million times (figuratively of course) only to have them turn up right under my nose (again figuratively) seconds (literally) later.

2) The grocery store accidentally forgot to give us our eggs. And pie pans. And ketchup (good riddance). And we didn't notice until we'd already gotten home. If you have even the most basic knowledge of Laura and me, you already know that we were much, much, much too lazy to actually get back in the car and right this gross iniquity…especially since the new episode of The Daily Show was just beginning.

3) We somehow managed to buy chicken thighs instead of breasts.

Laura went to the store today to sort it out, and actually got lost on the way there. Seriously, it is literally impossible to get lost on your way to this store. You have to make 3 turns to get there. It's a mile away. A blind man without a puppy could find his way there. Apparently she just drove back and forth looking for it. She called me on her way there, and the conversation went a little something like this:
L: So…wait…where is the store?
K: Are you lost again?
L: I…do I have to drive over Glendale?
K: Yes.
L: OK, good. What about Alvarado?
K: No. Just cross Glendale and you can't miss it.
L: ...
K: It takes up the entire left-hand side of the street.
L: …
K: Are you lost?
L: Left? It's on the left? Oh, that explains it! I've been trying to find it for like, half an hour, but I thought it was on the right!
K: No, that's impossible. You must be on the wrong street. The grocery store is impossible to miss. Are.You.Lost?
L: Nope, that's it. I was looking at the right-hand side.
K: Really? I mean...Really?
L: …
K: …
L: Oap! There it is! Thanks, K!

The good news? She got it all taken care of, and is about to boil the chicken for me.

..If she can find her way home.

[X-posted from myspace yesterday]