You’re a nice guy, but you can grate a sista’s nerves sometimes. I know I’m the crew leader when the two of us go out in the field, but that doesn’t mean I do all the work while you get to sit on your ass and chew the fat with the helicopter pilot. If you see me busting my hump loading the helicopter, you know what you should be doing? The same goddamn thing! If anything, I should be the one sitting on my fat ass, not you. You’re only out in the field three times a week. I’m out here EVERY DAY.
And when we’re talking about politics–which I’m loathed to do with you anyway–the polite thing is NOT to talk over me when I’m making a point. I don’t do that to you, despite the fact that you can’t string two words together so that they make sense. And there’s no need to immediately launch into a defensive mode whenever you respond to something I say. Because 9 times out of 10, I’m actually agreeing with your dumb ass. If you were to listen for just five seconds, you’d understand that.
Dear tailgater. Back off! There are cars ahead of us as far as the eye can see. Even if there were somewhere safe for me to pull over so you could get by, you would only be one car-length closer to your destination. I cannot go faster (and we are aready traveling above the speed limit) because there are cars up ahead. If you need to get places more quickly, leave earlier.
Seriously, what is it you think is going to happen? THERE ARE CARS AHEAD OF US AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE. Knock it off. It is people like you that remind me why I don’t own a gun.
I have been trained very specifically by my boss on exactly how to answer the phone. I’m sure you’re in a hurry to speak to someone, but my saying “Good morning, <firm name>, how may I help you?” only takes 3 seconds at most.
DO NOT INTERRUPT ME. IT’S RUDE, AND AS SUCH, I AM FAR MORE LIKELY TO “ACCIDENTALLY” DISCONNECT YOU.
Love, the Receptionist.
Dear co-workers:
How many times do I have to tell you that our courier cannot deliver a package to a P.O. Box? And that it is impossible to get the client’s signature when delivering to a P.O. Box? People don’t LIVE in their P.O. Boxes, morons. Don’t make me tell you again.
Love, Your Receptionist
Dear Career;
Get a move on, already. I hate being a receptionist.
I know that you really want to fix the peeling paint on the walls. Really, I do. And I’m okay with that. I also would have been okay with you coming by to do it at 9:30 in the morning if I’d had some previous notice. 9:30 is a reasonable time. However, no notice was had. I was still in bed with a headache (the inhalation of paint fumes from the stinky primer you put on my walls the day before probably wasn’t helping, come to think of it) wearing nothing but a skimpy t-shirt. Had I known you were coming, I would have been up, dressed, and out of the room. Also, I really don’t need to know your life stories. I don’t care about your ex-wife. I don’t care about your highschool sports. I really just want to get my shit together so I can leave my room, go to the library, and study for my quiz on African geography.
Dear dining hall:
I need protein. Badly. Please, try to occasionally serve something palatable made with meat? Half-cooked hamburgers do not count. Also, I’m tired of pulling other people’s hair out of my food.
Yes, you are the only one in the Tri-state area that has a ‘Great’ rating, but by now I think that by now we both know that its because you tell/threaten every customer to give ‘good marks’ to the phone survey after each service. Well, you’ve overcharged me repeatedly. You’ve broken parts of my car and publicly called me a liar when I called you on it. You or your people have stolen things out of my car when I’ve left it for service. So WHY are you filling my machine with messages that you miss my business? Fuck off and Die. Maybe then, when Satan grabs each side of your asshole, rips it wide, and folds your body through the other side like an inside-out gym sock, you’ll get a fucking clue.
Signed,
Me.
Dear Boss,
Who The Fuck Did You Sleep With To Get Your Job??? Not that even a horny leper with Priapism could keep it raised given your face or that voice. Honest To God, before I met you, I didn’t think there was ANYONE who could make Fran Drescher sound good. But how you look doesn’t matter…it’s your competence that’s in question…the $64,000 question (or however much they throw away on your salary).
Q: Do you really think that spending 2/3 of your day whining to your girlfriends and berating your husband over the phone loudly counts as ‘work’? How about the remaining 1/3 where you are conveniently unavailable due to ‘meetings’? BTW- Who the fuck are these meetings with? Because we all have a sneaking suspicion they are with shopping bags and department stores where you stow the bags in your car afterwards and before you come back upstairs.
I am So Fucking Sick of doing 100% of our areas work while you file your nails and listen to your IPOD. And your ‘one upsmanship games’ when I try to explain things to you are getting old fast. Today, I vow to myself, the SDMB, and to whatever evil deity that installed GWB as our Dick-tator-For-Life, that I will turn around and walk away from you the next time you utter the phrase “Oh, that’s Nothin…! You shoulda been there when…”
[Tommy Lee Jones] ** I Don’t CARE…! ** [/Tommy Lee Jones]
I Swear To Og, if I could put ‘competence’ in a syringe, I’d Shoot Your Boney Ass With A Marlin Perkin’s Dart-Gun and hope for the best. Hell, it’s not like it could get any worse.
And Could You Please Stop Flirting With Me? The Squick factor you invoke is off the scale. Every time you do, my nads shrink and hide behind my pelvis in fear.
Here’s a Hint: I’m Married and I have Children, all of whom I Love.
I wouldn’t risk that on you with 10 bags over your face, a Lead-Lined condom and Rush Limbaugh’s dick. Hell, I’d bet you’d even make the latex on a vibrator scream with fear. So let’s not go there. Ever. Again.
Hope you had a Happy Halloween
(My condolences to your broom)
[Looking back, my last post above sounded pretty mysogenistic. In context, more than half of our management are women and absolutely None of the others act the way that she does (Thank Og!)…]
Higher School Certificate exams are set by the Board of Studies. In Mathematics there are several levels: “General Maths” which is the lowest level but it’s not easy stuff but it’s more applicable to real life situations such as accounting and business, “Mathematics (Two unit)” is standard maths (all subjects are two units, except for extensions which count for one. You must do ten units to complete your higher school certificate and get a ranking for university entrance based on year results plus end of year exam results), “Extension 1” is worth one unit and done in conjunction with “Mathematics”, it’s also called ‘three unit maths’ by the students.
When setting the two unit Mathematics exam, the Board of Studies can put in up to 20% preliminary work (work learned in the previous year rather than last year of high school) and 5 - 10% three unit/extension 1 work. This means that in order to get 100% in your Maths exam, you have to be a three unit student. There is an Extension 2 or four unit but it’s fairly different and has a different exam altogether whereas three unit girls do the Maths 2 unit paper and a seperate 3 unit paper. It blows because I could have done Three Unit but chose not to because I knew I wouldn’t be able to give it the time and effort to do exceptionally well in it but rather that I could do two unit and do exceptionally well in that. But it turns out I can’t for a variety of reasons, most being my own but this also compounds the issue and the reason it’s a mini rant is because it’s not a huge deal but it still pisses me off!
To Summer,
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?! It’s fucking cold and piss-pouring down over here! I work in a goddamn open garden centre cafe! I’d prefer not to freeze my tits off because we also lose customers.
BRING IT!
Me.
Dear Middle-schoolers,
You see this jersey? You see how much taller I am than you? I’m a fucking senior and I’m in the middle of my goddamn final exams and after this I will never have to see you ever the fuck again.
But until that point, get your head up and watch where you’re fucking going! Yes I just elbowed you sharply in your freshly sprouted tits because YOU JUST SHOULDERED ME IN THE TENDER FLESH OF MY ARM! GET THE FUCK TO ONE SIDE AND DON’T WALK FOUR ABREAST DOWN THE SENIORS CORRIDOR!
We’re bigger than you, we’re bitchier, yes we’re fatter because we’re fucking stressed out. We walk down the left handside of the corridor dodging bags and locker doors, don’t chat idly to your BFF (trust me, in a year you’ll wonder wtf) whilst coasting down the hall. The corners of your folder covered in doodles are fucking sharp 'kay? So are the teeth of the caffeine crazed year twelves. I’m the nice one, despite all other appearances. I’m also the sane one less likely to snap because I get everything out here.
Don’t die in a fire, just get out of the way
Me.
Dear youngest-in-our-group friends,
Stop bitching about not being eighteen yet and how long it will be until you’re old enough to go out with everyone in our group. I’m the same age as the people in the year below us. As a goddamn year eleven. It will be a full five months before I can go out with our group after you’re able to. Do you really think by then anyone in our group is going to be interested in showing me around?
Love,
Me.
Dear older friends,
Stop teasing me about being the youngest in our group. No one outside it would know it if you didn’t point it out to them. Hell, YOU DIDN’T realise until I pointed it out.
Love,
Me.
P.S. Thanks for making it impossible for us to hang out as a group after formal because you all want to go out to the city.
Dear friends in general,
Stop bitching me out for only coming up to Schoolies overnight. Unlike all of you who live in your bloody high class bubble, I absolutely refuse to ask my dad to pay $800 for me to sit around some far too expensive house all week because I will still be the only one who isn’t eighteen and I know you guys will ditch me and get me to pick you up. Go fuck yourselves and think again. And M., I appreciate that you’ve organised prices for everything. Don’t bitch to me about my boyfriend not coming. Do you think I’m pleased with this arrangement? Don’t whinge to him about him not coming. The frequency and level of your whinging is slightly suspicious in light of previous events.
Get over yourselves,
Me.
Dear boyfriend,
I’m trying my damndest to make some time for you. Would it kill you to return the favour? I go away for two weeks to return ON OUR ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY. I love you and I want to see you more.
Love,
Me.
Dear group in general,
Please stop dating each other’s exes after consoling the dumped girl. It’s tacky. Stop recycling the limited group of men and find your own damn boys outside the group. I know you know some.
Love
Me.
Dear “friend”,
I have so much to say to you concerning dating someone’s much-loved ex, deciding that you liked someone else’s much-loved ex and would date then once you broke up with previously mentioned ex and how you’re basically a back stabbing ho who can’t keep your mouth shut but instead I’ll just thank you for keeping me entertained with a high drama quota.
Smiles
Me.
Man, I have issues with my friendship group…probably a good thing I’m only really close to three of them…
I have been told to take end-of-year billing issues directly to you until January 1st. Fine, whatever. It’s your job to handle these things, and my job to get the billing package straightened out (for my customers, at least.) So it was a perfectly reasonable assumption on my part that one of our customers sends a purchase order for service to you. Because we often initiate work for some customers on just a verbal say-so, and they send the hard copy PO to us, sometimes later than sooner. I just thought, that since it had your fucking name on it, you contacted them to send the errant purchase order, so I forwarded it to you. But I guess I was wrong, considering your response:
I assume you did not read the attachment. It is a PURCHASE ORDER for calibration. Does this mean I need to calibrate the thermometer? I’ll get on it right away. I know; I can do that with my calculator.
I can’t imagine what your response would have been if I took a 4X4 wooden post bristling with rusty 10d nails and shoved it unlubed up your ass, but believe me I considered finding out.
Sean
someone who brings money into this company, instead of finding ways to prevent people from doing same (you)
I just thought I’d bring you up to speed on one of those ‘troops’ that you say you care so much about. He was a combat veteran (something you know Nothing about) who had fought bravely at and survived the battle of … well its all just Blah-blah-blah to you right now anyway, so I’ll just keep it simple and leave it at ‘Combat Veteran’.
He died the other day if you care…and by your actions you so obviously don’t. He didn’t want a viewing or a wake or a memorial service, so you don’t have to sweat clearing your calendar to attend. Not that you ever attend the funerals of service people; we wouldn’t want you to clutter up your ‘Beautiful Mind’ with the banalities of the deaths of your Lessers anyway.
He only wanted one thing, Mr. Bush. He wanted to be buried at Arlington National Cemetery. It was and is his right; he earned it in ways you can only read about or try to imitate as you play your X-box. And he Will get to be buried there, so don’t go straining a Metacarpal lifting your finger. It’s just a matter of ‘When’.
Yes, Mr. Bush. ‘When’ is the subject of this post. ‘When’ is a word that relates to time. Things can be ‘about time’, like the GOP being voted out of Congress, ‘High time’, like when we should be setting a date to exit Iraq or your impeachment. ‘When’ denotes a time that we are all waiting for, like the end of your term of office. But I’m writing today about a different ‘when’. The ‘when’ I’m writing about is when this combat veteran, this decorated hero, can be buried at Arlington National Cemetery.
There’s a back-log and a waiting list for people to be buried there, Mr. Bush. It’s currently up to four weeks. Four weeks that he has to lie unburied. Four weeks that we have to wait until we can grieve or pay respects. Four Fucking Weeks! Yes, it’s cruel to him, to me, to my family, but we’re just One family, Mr. Bush. And for me to put just One family’s well being in front of the well being of all of America…well now that would be Damn Selfish, don’t you think? I mean, it’s not like we’re from Houston or anything. Hell, we don’t even own any oil stock, so in your book I know that we barely count.
But I didn’t write this today about One family. I wrote this today about All the families. I wrote this so you’d know the pain and humiliation of every family member of a serviceman or woman who as died…the ones who All have to wait four weeks to bury their honored dead. But I suppose I’m just being selfish again; I mean how many families could that possibly be? How many people could that tally up to, or in the moral terms of your heart of hearts, how many votes could that possibly cost you?
Well, lets see…you’re a Yale-man…I’m pretty sure you can figure it out. Lets start by stating the question:
Q: How Many servicemen and women’s lives have to be pissed away in a pointless civil war in an oil-bearing country in order to cause a Four Week Back-Log in Combat Veteran’s Funerals at Arlington National Cemetery?
Don’t forget to carry the one in the thousands spot. And yes, you can take off your shoes to help you count; the stink can’t be any worse than what’s drifting out of your office already.
This is for mini-rants, Count. Major rants are down the hall, to the right. We’ve roped off a whole section for whomever is the current U.S. president (been overly crowded these last 6 years, though).
This is to advise you that I'm done. I'm done making efforts to spend time with you. I'm done arranging to run into you in person so I can actually get responses out of you. I'm done sending you emails to which you don't respond, unless I give you cookies. I'm done waiting for you, period. The only reason I've continued to believe your little story about a long distance relationship is because you emphasized it was up in the air. That way, even if it weren't true, the implication is that there was some sort of potential between you and I. Well, FUCK YOU. Fuck you for lying to me. You have since made it clear that there is no such potential. You have made it abundantly, sterlingly clear that you don't care at all whether I live or die, much less whether or not you ever see me again.
Why do I feel justified making this claim? Let me go over the one damning piece of evidence. The smoking gun, as it were. Sunday afternoon, as I dove once more into the bog of physics problems in which I perpetually reside, I phrased the situation to myself thusly: "If I'm going to compete with this long-distance guy, real or not, I need to demonstrate how good a boyfriend I can be." So I resolved to make a striking demonstration of the degree of thoughtfulness, creativity, and humor I can put into a relationship. After I was done working for the night, I set about making a coupon.
At 1:30 Monday morning, I painstakingly crafted a certificate entitling you, the bearer, to one free lunch with me at a restaurant I knew you would like. Like any good candidate boyfriend, I remembered your statement about liking Mexican food, and I remembered our much earlier conversation about the burrito place in question. I combined this with humorous fine print and an elegant means of presentation: I taped it to the door of your building. This, I was sure, would get your attention. Later that day I verified that it had, in fact, been removed from the door. So I know you got it. I know this because, once again demonstrating my attention to detail, I placed it on the door a mere 6 hours before I knew you were to pass through it.
Monday passed with no communication from you. Likewise Tuesday. Wednesday I made one final effort: I arranged to cross paths with you this afternoon. Overlooking the fact that you were on the phone, a "hi" was exchanged and no mention was made of your free lunch. Between my placement of the coupon and now, Friday afternoon, there has been no communication from you. Not a phone call, not an email, not an instant message, not even a bloody facebook poke. Nada. Zero. Zip. Zilch. NOTHING. Which, as of right now, is what you are to me.
You see, this is it, chica. You've run out of time. Maybe you didn't read the fine print on that piece of paper, where it said "LIMITED TIME OFFER." I'm not a toy on a shelf to be stored until you decide to play with me. I had hoped we could at least be friends, but when you don't respond to something like that extraordinary gesture I really have to wonder. Have a nice life.
Resentfully,
Your former suitor.
I have two reasons to be certain she got it. One: I taped it to the door at about 1:30 am, and she leaves for her morning job at about 7:30. At 10:45ish, I verified it was gone. Two: It was unobtrusive. Folded up with her name written on it.
But the right way to ask about one. This is not a court of law. I want you to tell me what you see in my letter that you would call stalking, so I can tell you why you’re wrong.
Your reasoning is faulty. If she lives in a multi-unit dwelling of any sort, then she’s not likely to be the only one leaving for work early in the morning. Or even coming back into the building early in the morning. And if it was as unobtrusive as you say it was, then there’s a possibility that if she’s going out of the building then she may not have seen it. Especially if she’s on her way to work in the morning and not really on the lookout for secret messages from her admirers. I know that at 0730 I’m lucky if I can see the train coming, let alone a note posted on a door. Besides, even if it had her name on it there’s nothing there that would preclude another person picking it up, reading it and tossing it away somewhere. Unless you have her saying that she received it, there’s too many variables that say she may not have done.
Besides, what happened to just calling or emailing her with the offer for lunch? At least that way you know she got it.
Except we’re grad students. The entire complex is first year grad students. She’s unusual in that she has a part time gig teaching 8 year olds French at a local elementary school in the mornings.
As far as things on doors, we get thingers from FedEx and UPS all the time about attempted package deliveries and no one messes with those, even when they’re out all day. So I don’t see why someone would mess with this note that was there for all of 6 hours in the middle of the night.
You apparently know this woman’s movements to the hour. You surveil her door. Your words suggest you even arrange to cross her path so as to manufacture an encounter of a most passive-aggressive nature, in an effort to glean some acknowledgement of your affections. To put it blunty, you sound a bit more creepy than romantic. Ever thought of just asking her out to lunch, rather than this elaborate game to demonstrate your thoughtfulness? Is it common for suitors to spy on their love interests? Because that’s what it looks like from here.