Archive | November, 2011

You Shut Your Mouth RIGHT NOW!

25 Nov

One of the nice things about working from home – aside from not having to get dressed – is the lack of distraction.  Unless you count the television as a distraction…When I’m in my own home, there are times when I can get a lot done.  Mainly because I’m a BIG talker at work and my cube is the party cube, everyone always stops by to visit.

Here I am during Thanksgiving break on Martha’s Vineyard, and my boss was kind enough to let me work remotely while I’m here.  I’ve been pretty good about it, mainly because I want the chance to do it again another time.  As long as I log in, they don’t care what hours I work.  They just want to feel like I’m connected and still producing the stuff I’m supposed to produce.

Here’s the hitch, my mom is with me and she likes to take this time to talk to me while I’m in the middle of something.  She then proceeds to get pissed off when I don’t respond to her because I’m in the middle of something.  And you should see how mad she gets when I’m on a conference call and she starts asking me questions and I don’t answer her.  Livid.  Raging.  Tuesday she came downstairs while I was in the middle of a call so she decided to check her work voicemail.  She then told me to be quiet because she couldn’t hear.  Um, really?  Go back upstairs!!

This morning she decided to sit at the table with me while she checked the news.  She promised me she’d be quiet.  Yeah, right.  Here’s what I learned while she was reading the news this morning:

  • NY has the largest population of Mexicans in the United States.
  • Hugh Laurie is paid $250,o0o per episode and he wants to retire.
  • There’s a correlation between Alzheimer’s and weight gain.

First of all, I don’t care.  Second, I’m trying to work here!!  Third, what part of “I can’t talk to you while I work” do you not understand?

Go back upstairs.  Read you book and leave me alone for another hour so I can finish looking at facebook doing my work in peace.

Blow Out

19 Nov

You know what’s amazing?  Vacations!  I love a vacation.  I love a road trip, and I love it even more when the destination of the trip is yuppie haven: Martha’s Vineyard.  Mamacita and I are on our way to spend Thanksgiving and my birthday on the Vineyard.  We’re fucking fancy, y’all.  And the beauty of it all is she’s paying for everything AND I get to drive her luxury vehicle the whole entire way.

Here’s when it all goes wrong: when you’re on 95 just outside of NYC and a big fat metal crate is in the road way and you can’t slam on your breaks because you’ll be rear ended and you can’t swerve to the right because a big fucking truck is there so you run over the thing and then you end up with a flat tire.  No joke.  In the Bronx, just the two of us with the car piled high and a flat fucking tire.  Thankfully, she has road side assistance and they came to change the tire for us.

BUT and this is a big but, it’s a temporary tire.  One you can’t drive on over 50 mph.  Makes it hard to get to your destination when you’re driving slower than someone’s grandmother.  Yes, that was me you were flipping off and honking at yesterday.  We spent two hours in the Bronx driving around looking for a replacement tire.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a tire for a Land Rover?  Next to impossible because no one fucking has one – except for Land Rover, who doesn’t have a dealership in the Bronx.  Go figure.

After several hours of getting stuck in the world’s worst traffic – because no one near NYC can drive, we finally decided to drive on the temporary to our first stop.  Amazing, fucking amazing driving that slow on the highway.  I seriously thought I would never have to do that…until I turned 90 and became one of those drivers.

We spent several more hours this morning looking for another tire, only to find out they’re backordered and not being produced by Pirelli.  Awesome and amazing.  That means she has to have all four tires replaced and it’ll run her $1500, without the service.

We’re off to a great start!

Bring in the Big Guns

16 Nov

There is something wrong with me.  Seriously wrong with.  I know what you’re all thinking, “We know, we know, you’re totally wrong in so many ways.”  You’ll never guess what I did today.  NEVER GUESS!!  No, I didn’t make out with a 27 year old hotty who has a girlfriend in the elevator.  Nor did I jump into someone’s Mustang and proceed to face rape him in the front seat of his car.  It doesn’t even have anything to do with purposely wearing a low cut blouse when I knew I was going to have a meeting with one of my work secret boyfriends.

Oh, no.  No, no.

Today I took a page out of the Cougar Handbook and full on molested my secret boyfriend.  Not molested like there were tears or he was going to feel dirty or if anyone saw it they’d report me.  Not THAT bad.  Though that would have been awesome to because as I suspected, his body is TIGHT.

Dreamy Blue Eyes and I have been working on a project together for about eight months.  Yes, it’s true, the only reason I offered to work on the project is because I knew he was working on it.  This has all worked out in my favor because I’m the one he calls when he needs help, or he needs to be talked off the ledge, etc.  A few weeks ago we went into Philadelphia for a meeting.  I drove, he sat in the front seat with me, and there were two people in the back.  Not sure what we were talking about, but the project manager in the back commented that she felt she was watching an episode of “Friends” just based on the exchange we were having.

Blah blah blah.

Anyway, he was on the verge of a major meltdown today so he called me and asked me to help him work through something.  Of course, I said yes.  Thankfully I was looking pretty hot today, all down to the black pencil skirt and heels.  If only my top had been lower cut.  Oh well.  Just as I showed up at his desk a cock blocker came to interrupt our conversation – or so I thought.  Turns out I couldn’t have asked for a better interruption.  The cock blocker was talking about the project and I could see Dreamy Blue Eyes on the verge of freaking out.  So I did what any soon-to-be-Cougar would do.

I pounced.

I leaned forward, grabbed Dreamy Blue Eye’s arm (with both hands), and told cock blocker he was going to make Dreamy Blue Eyes cry and we needed to work some stuff out.  People.  People of the blogosphere.  PEOPLE!  Holy fuck his arm was AMAZING.  I could feel every single muscle underneath his sleeve.  Hot.  Cut.  He clearly has a smoking hot body trapped underneath his clothes.  Unreal.

Unforch, I won’t be the one to peel off that shirt and give him chest to chest rub down I dream of.  That is left to his wife.  His stupid, petite, wicked cute, and smart wife.  I hate her.

But I love him.

In related news, I need to get laid.

RAWR! I Will Bite You!

14 Nov

Riddle me this, readers: why do dudes in their 20’s think I’d be interested in dating them?  I’m 37, in nine days I’ll be 38.  Whenever people hear my age they are shocked (or pretend to be shocked).  Yeah, okay, I don’t look my age, but I don’t exactly look like I’m in my 20’s.  On a good day I could probably pull off 32.  A few weeks ago when I went to visit my cousin in Canada I met a dude on the plane.  He looked EXACTLY like the Jersey Shore’s, Situation – only he was Indian.  When I told him how old I was he was absolutely floored.  Floored.  He said he thought I was in my late 20’s.  I think he was looking for a wristy in the last bathroom stall, but still it was flattering.

But still, I seem to draw the young ones.  Last year it was Office Adonis who is 10 years  younger than I am.  Then there was a friend of Biggie’s (engaged, of course) who called me one night to tell me how awesome and beautiful I was.  And how we would totally be together IF he wasn’t engaged.  Whatevs.  WHATEVS.  I said it.

Last year when I moved to Philly I put myself up on a few websites.  One of my profiles is still up there, not that I bother to date anyone from the site.  It serves as an ego boost sometimes – a reminder that there are men out there who are interested.  Not that I’m interested in them.  For some reason, however, I seem to draw the young ones.  The VERY young ones.  There have been a few who are still in high school, and A LOT who are still in college.  As I go back to review my profile, I can’t seem to find anything which would indicate I’m interested in someone THAT young.

So then why would someone who is easily 15 years my junior want to be with someone like me?

Oh, dating, why must you be so difficult?  There are PLENTY of times when I’m so perfectly delighted to be on my one.  To be honest, though, there are just as many nights when I wish I was part of a “WE” instead of just “ME”.

Is it too much to ask to be someone’s little spoon?

Keep Your Chen Up

8 Nov

Yours truly has wound up in the world’s lamest training class.  It was one that originally held promise, but when the instructor walked in 10 minutes before class was supposed to start at 8:30 and then announced we would start at 9:00 I knew I was in for it.  I’ll admit as a learning professional I tend to be pretty critical of other trainers and of training classes, but this one sucks hardcore.  Instead of it being a class where people get to participate and learn something, this is more of a lecture where he barrages us with information (which is incorrect) and talks for two hours straight without taking a break.

It’s not one of those classes where you look up at the clock and you think to yourself, “my my, I can’t believe how much time has passed!” No, no.  Instead it’s one of those where you think, “the clock must be broken because it feels like it’s been 45 minutes since I last looked at the clock and the minute hand hasn’t even budged.”  Add to the fact that the teacher has a totally annoying habit of adding “you know” into every single sentence and you have a natural replacement for Ambien.  This is what his sentences sound like:

You know the element you know that in nature you know is a natural you know element and you know that’s what we’re going to talk about you know.  You know that the element you know is natural you know and we’re you know talking about you know it you know.

Kill me.  Just kill me twice and put me out of my misery.

There was, however, one hilarious thing that happened in class today.  While most of us were drooling on our notebooks from boredom he started calling on people by names to get us to participate.  He turned to the one Asian girl in class and asked, “Chen, what do you think of this image?”  To which she promptly responded, “My name is Allison.”

Aw, racism at it’s finest.  And in case you thought you might defend him saying he was calling her by her last name, you’d be terribly wrong.  Her last name doesn’t sound anything remotely like a stereotypical last name.

Sleeping with the Enemy

3 Nov

One of the nice things about being single is never being woken up in the middle of the night by someone snoring, hogging the bed or blankets, talking in his sleep, or hitting.  Yeah, I just said hitting.  I’ve been fortunate enough to never have slept (actual sleeping) with anyone other than someone who snored.  There were times when I considered covering his nose and mouth with duct tape, but instead I opted for a sharp elbow to the ribs along with a “YOU’RE SNORING!” yelled sweetly into an ear.  Rather effective.  It never got bad enough where someone had to leave the room – thank God!

I had a girlfriend who had it even worse.  Her husband suffered from night terrors.  For those of you that don’t know what they are, imagine being awake during a nightmare.  He would have horrible dreams and would jump out of bed, yell, etc. and appear as he was awake.  One time he dreamed his wife was covered in snakes so he immediately tried knocking them off of her – she woke up to him hitting her.  Not fun, for her, but totally amusing for me.

Yesterday a friend of mine, a newly wed, told me he freaked the fuck out on his new bride.  His wife woke up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water.  She leaned over to him because he was making some noises and he suddenly whispered, “Everything I touch dies.”  Of course that freaked her out, so she immediately left the room.  A little while later she came back and crawled into bed.  As soon as she was settled back under the covers, he turned towards her and said, “don’t move.”  Needless to say she didn’t get much sleep for the rest of the night.

Feel bad for those guys…and I’ll think of them when I tuck myself into the middle of my bed, hogging covers and pillows and drift off to sleep with no one to disturb my slumber.

A New Take on Passive Agressive

1 Nov

Yesterday afternoon I had lunch with Biggie.  After a rough weekend, he felt there was only one way to turn things around: with bacon.  When he extended the invitation he said he was on the verge of killing someone and he had to get off campus, PLUS he offered to pay.  How could I say no.

Once in the car, and after we exchanged pleasantries (which of course included comments on my fine rack and his disappointment when he saw I was wearing pants), he proceeded to tell me why his weekend had been so shitty.  It wasn’t one thing, but a series of things that led him to his breaking point.  His dog decided it was time to eat his favorite shoe, then proceeded to vomit pieces of it on the brand new white carpet in the living room.  Someone keyed his car at the grocery store.  Saturday morning he went to open the fridge for the cream he puts in his coffee, only to realize he had forgotten to buy some the previous day.  His mother-in-law showed up unannounced and decided it was time to reorganize some closets – for four hours.  After leaving, his wife harassed him all night about going.  He refused since because of the weather, so she decided to stand in front of the TV while he tried to watch a little college football.  And to top it all off, on Sunday night, his wife took a brand new gallon of ice tea out of the fridge and proceeded to drop it on the just mopped kitchen floor.  The bottom popped off and the tea spilled EVERYWHERE.  This set him off and he went into freak-the-fuck-out mode.

He went on a tirade on how much life sucked and why people don’t listen, and blah, blah, blah.  He yelled so much and so loudly that two sets of neighbors proceeded to show up to make sure he and his wife were not in some kind of danger (read: that he wasn’t beating his wife).  When they asked if everything was okay, he proceeded at yelling again.  It all ended in a massive headache.

When he woke up in Monday morning, the dog refused to get up for his morning walk.  It took an extra 15 minutes of cajoling to get him on the move.  He took a look at the car and realized it would require scraping all of the ice off the windshield – making him late to work.  Once he was done with the dog and the windshield he went back inside the house to say goodbye to his wife.  She rolled over, and asked him if his headache was gone.  “Yes,” he responded.  “Good.  You were a total prick last night.” and she rolled over and went back to bed.

As he told me the story I was rolling – especially when she called him a prick.  That’s when he started sharing what she typically does when she gets mad at me.  Her wonderful and creative techniques include hiding his good socks, and clearing out the DVR.  So he’ll wake up to watch a TV show he recorded, only to realize it’s completely gone.  But my favorite – this one had me weeping – is when she walks into the kitchen while she’s there, takes out the pitcher of iced tea he’s just brewed, walks over to the sink, and pours the entire thing down the drain while she stares at him.  She then puts the pitcher on the counter, leaves all the tea bags in the sink, and just walks out.

Almost makes me want to have a boyfriend so I can pull that kind of shit.  Good times.  Good times.