Dude, look who called me the other day at work:
I mean, I know the Latino community has way cooler names than we white folk do in general, but that’s just ridiculous.
Category Archives: jobby jobby job job
Hey, not to make matters worse, but seriously, keep your hair off my toilet seat in the future.
Filed under good times at everyone else's expense, jobby jobby job job, my uber-confrontational personality, politicking, potty mouth
Tagged as good times at everyone else's expense, jobby jobby job job, my uber-confrontational personality, politicking, potty mouth
Tagged as good times at everyone else's expense, jobby jobby job job, my uber-confrontational personality, politicking, potty mouth
You may remember that fateful day a year ago in which I went to my favourite bathroom stall at work to find
Well, today, I came out of my stall, and as I was washing my hands, a black woman from the office next door walked in, half-acknowledged the hello I gave her, and went straight for the very same stall. I thought to myself about how funny it is that I always see her using that stall and how we must appreciate the same sort of conditions while doing our bizness.
And then it hit me. The largest pubic hair in existence was probably . . . the hair from her head. And if she saw that sign, she was probably offended, maybe even deeply hurt. It likely called to mind all of the years of latent racism she’s endured, all of the rage she felt when Don Imus called those girls “nappy-headed hoes”. She probably went to the back of the bus that night out of shame.
I don’t have to feel bad about it as a privileged white person, but I sort of do.
I Never Thought I’d End Up Here, Either
There’s a very sweet woman who cleans our bathroom at work. She’s a couple of years older than I am, I imagine, with large eyes and shiny brown hair that grows past her shoulders. She’s fit but curvy, so she looks pretty smokin’ in the white shirtdress that serves as her uniform.
For some reason, we always end up in the bathroom at the same time in the mornings. She rolls a little cart full of toilet paper, seat covers, and paper towels in and goes about refilling each stall. I always say hello to her, and she always smiles and says hello back with a bit of a European accent. I always think about how she was probably a teacher or a surgeon back home, but I’d never talked to her enough to ask her.
I was waiting for the elevator with two other women from the floor at noon yesterday, though, and when the doors opened, she was standing inside in a colorful striped shirt and dress pants. I said, “Done already?”, and she said, “Oh, no, just going for lunch. I change clothes, though, because I hate my uniform.” She paused and added, “I hate my job.”
I said, “I love your uniform! It’s really adorable, actually.” She said thanks, and then, out of nowhere, she said, “This is the only job I can get. In my country, I got a degree to be a physician’s assistant, but it doesn’t matter here.” I asked where she’s from, and she said Albania. I said, “You hear that a lot here. People who speak multiple languages and are obviously intelligent had jobs they loved overseas but can’t get work here.” One of the girls with me said, “I’ve met more doctor cab drivers . . .”
We all bid each other good day as we began to part ways in the lobby, and I wanted to say something like, “Umm . . . you’re really great at your job, if that helps.” But then I remembered that this is the girl who has to put a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom stall I’ve just pooped in, and nothing I can say is going to comfort her.
This Ain’t “Seinfeld”, People
Filed under jobby jobby job job, potty mouth
Tagged as battery park, jobby jobby job job, potty mouth
Tagged as battery park, jobby jobby job job, potty mouth
Last week, I walked into the ladies restroom at work and saw a black cardigan sweater draped across the back of one of the toilets and spilling on to the floor. Just looking at it sort of made me sick to my stomach, and in order to keep from vomiting, I had to stop myself from picturing some woman coming in, realizing it’s hers, picking it up off the back of the toilet, and putting it back on.
I swear, I’m about ten seconds away from putting a hazmat suit on every time I go in there, and someone’s taking her clothes off to pee?
The One That Got Away
Filed under bigtime celebrity, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat
Tagged as bigtime celebrity, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat
Tagged as bigtime celebrity, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat
I was reading in You Don’t Know Us But . . . this morning that the NBC drama “Kings” was canceled, which probably means nothing to anyone but me but means enough to me to make up for everyone else.
Did I tell you that I was asked to be in that show? Before I had even heard of it, I was called on a Friday afternoon by a casting director and asked to play the part of the mayor’s wife at a shooting in Brooklyn on the following Monday. At the time, I had just started working for the then-president of my company and was so concerned about looking diligent and not skipping work that I decided to politely decline the offer. Because I am an idiot who thinks it’s not cool to actively try to become an actress.
When the ads for the show started appearing all over New York City this spring,
I cringed every time I saw one. I blamed Kamran for everything, really, since when I told him that I’d turned the part down, he Google chatted to me, “Oh honey, you have all kinds of talent and all kinds of opportunities. And you’ve already done a FAMOUS TV show and a major motion picture, so you’ve already cemented your bragging rights, too. I wouldn’t sweat this one little fish.” So instead of calling the casting director right back like I felt I should to say, “Nevermind! I’ve cleared my schedule, and I’m ready for my close-up!”, I just went about my business of conference calls and spreadsheets. (And by that, I of course mean updating my blog and sniffing the Sharpies.)
I never actually watched the show, because naturally I wanted it to fail miserably. The worst possible situation would’ve been for me to not have appeared in it and for it to have become a huge hit. And since I never watched it, I have no idea what the mayor’s wife’s role actually was, but to this day, I swear in my mind that it was a major part with a huge amount of lines and extravagant costumes.
But now the show’s canceled. Just like the show I was actually in. Coincidence?
It’s Not Cool to Brag About Being a Drunk
Filed under all of my friends are prettier than i am, jobby jobby job job, par-tay
Tagged as all of my friends are prettier than i am, jobby jobby job job, lower east side, par-tay
Tagged as all of my friends are prettier than i am, jobby jobby job job, lower east side, par-tay
My office had a going-away party recently for one of our co-workers who moved to one of our locations in Singapore mostly to have better access to prostitutes. Here are my favourite photos from the night, most of which involve us inexplicably sticking out our tongues:
The next day, people kept congratulating me on being a happy drunk, which I suppose is something worth congratulating someone on. My boyfriend was not one of these people, as he was the one receiving texts from me hours after I told him I’d be home that said things like, “i don kno if i can maeuke it!”
When he texted me back, worried and ready to come pick me up wherever I was, he found out that I was thirty feet from his apartment building. Hilarious to me. Not so much to him.
In case you missed them:
Would You Eat This? #1: Fish Balls
Thumbs Down for Thai Me Up
With Advanced Age Brings Advanced Baby-Lovin’
I was complaining to Dr. Boyfriend last Thursday morning that being one of the very few women in my office meant that I was going to be expected to care about the annual Take Our Daughters And Sons To Work Day and all of the tiny visitors it would bring. (And by all of, I mean all of two, because no one in my office is an adult.)
As a woman, I’m supposed to automatically care about and want to interact with children. Which I don’t. When I used to work at the children’s science center during college, I was always so envious of the one old guy in my department who had a bunch of stock questions he’d ask kids: “What did you have for breakfast?”, “How many years before you get to go to kindergarten?”, “Which is your favourite animal at the zoo?”
I never had those questions ready, so I was always fumbling around for something to talk about and ended up asking things like, “Have you ever accidentally seen Daddy kissing someone else’s mommy?” I was never first on the list when annual raise time came, as you can imagine.
But for as much as I had prepared myself to totally ignore the kids in our office on Thursday, I hadn’t prepared myself for this:
Come on! Baby Owen in multi-pocketed shirt AND pants, playing with Tim’s BlackBerry pouch, that totally squeezable belly hanging out of them? It almost makes me want to take this back.
The Asshole at My Bus Stop is Helping Me Make Some Pocket Change
Filed under bigtime celebrity, funner times on the bus, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, narcissism
Tagged as bigtime celebrity, funner times on the bus, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, narcissism
Tagged as bigtime celebrity, funner times on the bus, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, narcissism
My best friend, Tracey, recommended a couple of weeks ago that I apply to write for Examiner.com as one of their restaurant reviewers. I was dismayed to find that they weren’t hiring any more food types, but they were looking for articles about public transportation, which I ride every day in the city where it’s most necessary.
I didn’t know if my stories about kneeing old men in the groin to make sure I get into a crowded train were what they were looking for, but I gave it a go, and they actually liked me. Here’s the article I posted today:
Every bus stop has its own special asshole, but I think mine should get a crown for his assholiness.
Whenever there’s someone running from the very end of the waiting line to be first at the bus’s door . . .
Whenever there’s someone racing to get a seat on the bench to ensure some old lady can’t . . .
Whenever there’s someone rushing from the bench to the edge of the sidewalk the second the bus comes into view . . .
It’s him.
I sort of feel sorry for him. He’s a nondescript man of a nondescript age in a city where being descript is the only way to not get lost in the throng. He cuts his hair not to be stylish but to be practical. He wears modern shoes but pairs them with pleated pants rolled up at the hem. He’s not thirty but not fifty, not attractive but not deformed.
It seems that his only goal in life is to get one of the single seats that lines the driver’s side of any bus. And it’s widely recognized that those single seats are where it’s at–you can let your love handles spill off the side without anyone complaining, and you don’t have to deal with anyone else’s love handles spilling all over you. I don’t hate him for liking that.
What I DO hate him for is being audible about his disgust for the rest of us during the ride. After living here for a few years, I’m used to crazy people talking to themselves about pills and Jesus and the white man keeping them down, but I’m not used to people groaning about
• how annoying being stopped at a red light is.
• how they wish the bus driver would hit pedestrians in the crosswalk.
• how disabled people shouldn’t be allowed on the bus because they take too long to board.
There’s more to life for me than sitting by myself, so being polite to those waiting for the bus with me is worth it even if it means missing out on a single seat. Sometimes my waiting gets rewarded, though, and I end up with a single seat, anyway. Like this morning, when I struggled on with a huge bag and was delighted to see that I could slide right into the second single seat back.
I didn’t notice, but the jerk behind me had his foot stuck way out into the aisle, so of course I accidentally stepped on it. I immediately turned around with a genuine, “I’m sorry!”, and who was it but The Guy. He said, “Oh, God,” in his most perturbed voice, so I said mockingly, “Oh, Jesus, sweet Lord, she stepped on my unfashionable shoes, and I simply don’t know how I’m going to make it through the day!”
I sort of expected him to pull my hair or flick my ear or something, but no such luck. He just sat quietly throughout the remainder of our time together and then checked out my rack when I got up at my stop.
I get paid based on my number of views, so if you want to keep me fed in this harsh economic climate, please view this article
and my very first article
here.
I really appreciate your support, and I really recommend that you become an Examiner for your city so that we can link to each other and take over the world.
It should be noted that the HR guy who called me is also the one who’s keeping me from getting the raise I was promised in July.
Filed under holidays don't suck for me, jobby jobby job job
Tagged as holidays don't suck for me, jobby jobby job job
Tagged as holidays don't suck for me, jobby jobby job job
I was made to plan my company’s holiday party against my will. Apparently having a holiday party at all is a rarity in NYC–New York magazine reported that 2/3 of them have been canceled–but having a holiday party after a huge layoff must be even rarer. I wasn’t pumped to plan this bitch in the first place, but once my best work-friend, Sonya, lost her job and I lost my party-planning partner, I was done.
So I naturally hired someone else to do and told her just to make it all go down right there in the office. The woman came in today with her $2500 worth of decorations with the intent of turning the reception desk into our open bar. And then corporate HR called and told me that events held in the office can’t involve alcohol.
LIFE ONLY GETS BETTER BY THE MOMENT.
The Seat-Smearers Strike Again
Filed under jobby jobby job job, my uber-confrontational personality, too much information
Tagged as battery park, jobby jobby job job, my uber-confrontational personality, too much information
Tagged as battery park, jobby jobby job job, my uber-confrontational personality, too much information
I think it’s pretty common to have a favourite stall in the bathroom, but I’m nearly obsessive about mine. I monitor who else is using it, which of the two toilet paper rolls is getting utilized more, what time of day it gets visited for the first time, and so on and so on. These things are especially important considering that I work next to an office of women who POOP ON TOILET SEATS.
It’s the perfect stall, too. The first one has the air vent in it, and while I appreciate a little noise while I’m doing my business, I can’t handle that there’s a huge space on the right side where everyone can look in and see you. The second one is too cramped. The third one is too spacious. The fifth one is handicapped, for God’s sake. And so I take the fourth. I used to try and play it cool and not use my special stall if someone was already in the third or fifth out of respect for their peeing privacy, but in my old age, I’ve come to care much more about my own comfort.
Anyway, the other day, I innocently went to my stall and found THE HUGEST PUBIC HAIR EVER CULTIVATED just lying there, sprawling across the whole seat. You can imagine my horror. And so I typed up the following sign in the biggest font possible:
PLEASE VISIT STALL #4
I thought about adding something about taking a Weedwhacker to a bush but thought better of it, being intensely concerned about my professionality and all.
When I came back after lunch, I followed a woman down the hall who stooped to pick up the sign, which had been tossed to the floor. I thought it very apropos that these seat-smearing women would take down the sign but not take the extra two seconds to throw it away. The woman–who doesn’t seem to speak a lot of English–looked at the paper as if she was confused by it, so I said, “What an awesome sign,” and she stuck it back on the door without a second thought.
And so my legacy lives on.
I Fired My Friends and Won an Australian!
I don’t have time to type anything, because I’ve been too busy HELPING TO END THE CAREERS of half of my company. Yay, economic downturn!
But in the process, I won a visit from Aaron!, who came allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll the way from Australia just to see me. And to study abroad at Virginia Tech. Which he had no idea had had a big shooting incident until he started Google image searching his new home and saw that every single result had to do with people getting killed.
Many a picture will no doubt result from our impending weekend, all of them involving us with awkward fake smiles.
If I knew for sure it wasn’t illegal to post other people’s phone numbers in my blog, I would do it SO FAST right now.
Filed under good times at everyone else's expense, jobby jobby job job, my uber-confrontational personality
Tagged as good times at everyone else's expense, jobby jobby job job, my uber-confrontational personality
Tagged as good times at everyone else's expense, jobby jobby job job, my uber-confrontational personality
In my incredibly important role as an executive assistant, I have to talk to a lot of really retarded people (none of which is my boss, I’d like to emphasize, in case he ever reads this). But none of these is more retarded than the IT telemarketer. This is the guy who never EVER bothers to look up the name of the IT manager at your location but just calls and casually tells you–obviously on speakerphone, because his legs are kicked up on his desk and he’s busy practicing his old frat’s secret handshake–to connect him to whoever happens to be the head of your IT department. Having a superiority complex and an intense desire to lose my job over something stupid like being snotty to salesmen, I make absolutely no effort to mask the loathing in my voice from these cretins.
HOWEVER, I just received a call from one at an NYC company called Axispoint and was uncharacteristically nice to him, simply because I was coming off a delicious chicken meatball lunch and had really enjoyed IMing Dr. Boyfriend about being excited to “warm up my ‘balls” all morning long. But as soon as I uncharacteristically nicely told this guy that we don’t even keep an IT department at our location–particularly ironic since we’re a software company–he just went and HUNG UP ON ME.
Can you believe it? I am the one who hangs up on people. I am underpaid one who has to talk to retards all day. I have a singsong voice that demands telemarketers to stay on the line longer. But not this guy.
I checked my call log, and of course I have his number from my caller ID. So what should I do with it?
Happy Birthday to Me! and I’m Sorry About the Smell
Filed under holidays don't suck for me, jobby jobby job job, narcissism, too much information
Tagged as holidays don't suck for me, jobby jobby job job, narcissism, too much information
Tagged as holidays don't suck for me, jobby jobby job job, narcissism, too much information
My dear Dr. Boyfriend has a series of uplifting catchphrases, my favourites being “everything’s coming up Kamran” and “it’s your world, squirrel”. For my birthday today, he sent me this:
And while I have no idea who invited the guy in the cowboy hat to my party, I appreciate the sentiment.
But I’ll tell you what–it’s rough having a birthday when you’re lactose intolerant. As you may remember, I’ve been working on becoming lactose tolerant, and while I do believe I’m making strides, what’s coming out of my bum today smells nasty. I keep running out of the bathroom as soon as I’m finished, because I don’t want to hang around and have to explain to my co-workers who weren’t in New Orleans with me this week, “I’m lactose intolerant, but there was an ice cream bar at lunch yesterday, and what was I supposed to do?! It’s my goddamned birthday!”
I’m off to New Orleans!
While there for the next three days in the Harrah’s Hotel and Casino, I plan to:
• not gamble
• not sightsee in any way
• not get drunk and show my boobs to anyone
• mostly lie about in my ridiculously-overpriced hotel room, devising ways to steal M&Ms from my minibar
Yaaaaay, work trips!
You Could Ice a Cake with What’s in Our Thighs
Filed under all of my friends are prettier than i am, it's fun to be fat, jobby jobby job job
Tagged as all of my friends are prettier than i am, battery park, it's fun to be fat, jobby jobby job job
Tagged as all of my friends are prettier than i am, battery park, it's fun to be fat, jobby jobby job job
Our boyfriends are under the impression that my co-worker/super-New-York-BFF Sonya and I are trying to eat right and lose inches off our ever-expanding assets, but the truth is that most of our day is spent at my desk doing this:
And boy, are we pleased with ourselves about it:
From the Poo to the Empire
Filed under creepy boyfriend obsession, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat
Tagged as creepy boyfriend obsession, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, midtown
Tagged as creepy boyfriend obsession, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, midtown
My boyfriend, Kamran, recently moved from a regular, old associate office into a partner office at the law firm where he does patent whatnot, and late Saturday afternoon, he took me to work to show me how far he’s come.
to this:
The glory! The majesty! Looking out upon the Empire State Building as you write patents and litigate the hell out of anyone who so much as coughs in your direction–that’s how you know you’ve made it!
But even now that he’s sittin’ pretty on top, Kamran will always be a physics-experiments-in-the-lab-lovin’ kind of nerd:
Congratulations, hotstuff.
They Poop on the Toilet Seats, and That’s All I Should Have to Say
Filed under jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, my uber-confrontational personality
Tagged as jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, my uber-confrontational personality
Tagged as jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, my uber-confrontational personality
My software company and another company split the 25th floor of our office building at the tip of Manhattan, and we get the distinct impression that they hate us next door. Someone suggested that our half of the floor had been empty for a long time and that the neighbors got used to not having to share the floor bathrooms and elevators, but I secretly think it’s because they’re a Jewish company and we’re a German company. I say this because one time, a lady from next door–who I admittedly like because she talks books with me–brought over a document that was written in German and asked one of our interns to help her translate it into English, and he later told me that he thought it was strange because it was already translated on the next page; he thinks she brought it over under the translation guise just because it was a deed handing over some German-owned paintings to the Jews and she wanted to rub it in our faces.
A very few of the women are normal and polite, so there was a lot of guess and check in the beginning when it came to figuring out who was worth saying hi to and who would flat-out ignore us. We learned to wrap paper towels around our hands before touching the door handles in the restrooms when we noticed how many of them just turned on the water for show and how many of them didn’t even bother with that. We’d not use the stall directly next to someone just to be polite until we noticed how many of them chose to fart up a storm with no regard on the toilet right beside us when the entirety of the restroom was otherwise empty. And then there were the times–that’s right; multiple times–when they pooped ON the toilet seats. You can imagine the kinds of passive-aggressive signs I posted on the bathroom mirrors after those incidents. So needless to say, after working in this office for two years, I’m done trying to make friends.
And then last week, my co-worker Jian was humbly leaving the office, chatting with me as he opened the door. You have to understand that Jian is the most unassuming, most gentle, most grateful guy, and that he’d never intentionally hurt any of the women next door, as much as they deserve it. You also have to understand that the hallway in our office building is veeeery wide and that there’s no reason someone would be walking right in front of our door on the left side of the hallway when any normal person stays to the right. Jian happened to not be looking where he was going, though, and he managed to come really close to hitting this scrunch-faced hag from next door who walks like a duck.
He didn’t hit her. He came close, but he didn’t. And he immediately said so genuinely, “Oh, pardon me! I’m so sorry!”, even though, you know, he had nothing to be sorry for. But the lady just stood there and scowled at him like an old bulldog for a second before continuing on. Which pissed. me. off. So I started yelling, “You bitch! He just apologized to you even though you were walking RIGHT IN FRONT of our door and saw him coming through the glass and didn’t bother to move over to the middle of the hallway!” She just turned around and called back to him, “You need to be more careful!” So I started yelling again about how she needs to keep to the right side of the hallway if she doesn’t want to get smacked upside her fat head while poor Jian just sort of shrunk back into the office and closed the door.
I didn’t see the woman for the rest of the week, which I thought was lucky, because it seems like it would’ve been mighty uncomfortable to find myself waiting for the elevator with her after that. But this morning at 9, I stepped out of my office to use the restroom, and she was waddling down the hallway with her scrunch face in full effect. I instinctively half-smiled before I realized who it was (as any Ohioan would), and then I was like, Oh, shit, now what do I do? It was going to look ridiculous if I went back into the office and just pretended that I’d popped out for a breath of fresh hallway air, so I forged ahead to the restroom. I heard the clip-clop of her cloven hooves as she sped up to ensure that I’d have to hold the door for her, so I rushed in without looking like I was rushing and let the door slam right behind me.
And it felt awesome.
In Which a Black Rat Crosses My Path on Friday the 13th
Filed under fun times on the subway, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, my uber-confrontational personality, super furry animals
Tagged as fun times on the subway, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, my uber-confrontational personality, super furry animals
Tagged as fun times on the subway, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, my uber-confrontational personality, super furry animals
Last summer, I made a bet with myself that every single time I waited for the subway, I’d see a rat running along the tracks. And wouldn’t you know it–every time I had more than a moment’s wait, I’d spot one, and more than a few times, I saw two chasing each other. I guess it got to be too normal an occurrence after a while, because I rarely think to do it anymore. But yesterday morning, I didn’t have to.
I’ve been reading magazines on the subway a lot lately, finding that it relaxes me to the point that I’m not bothered by things like the seated person in front of me kicking my feet repeatedly while I stand crushed between two unshowered men, gripping the slimy metal bar above my head. I like to get on the last car of the downtown 4/5 train in the morning, get off still reading, and keep on reading while I leisurely walk to the staircase that exits the station, mostly because it really seems to piss off all the people who’re in a major hurry.
Yesterday when the doors to the car opened at Bowling Green, I stepped out holding my magazine and then almost dropped it a second later when A RAT up and RAN ACROSS THE PLATFORM right in FRONT OF ME. Some people gasped. Some people broke the no-talking-in-the-morning-on-the-subway rule and murmured to themselves. Everyone turned and watched it bound to the end of the platform. One man–out of place amongst the business suits and briefcases in a t-shirt and a backpack–pointed his finger and lifted his thumb to make a gun shape and pretended to shoot the thing until it jumped onto the tracks and disappeared.
Ahhhhh, Friday the 13th.
Totally Non-Obvious
Filed under creepy boyfriend obsession, jobby jobby job job, narcissism
One of my main functions in our office is to generate license keys for the software we make. This requires absolutely no technical knowledge nor any sort of awareness of the product, which is why they let a girl do it. My co-worker Jack IMed me today and reminded me why I’m so pleased to have surrounded myself with geeks:
Co-Worker Jack: Jian just called you “our license key generator” to a client.
Me: Sexy!
Co-Worker Jack: Haha. I thought you’d like that.
Me: I enjoy that I sound like a robot.
Co-Worker Jack: Yeah, you are KATIE–Key Autonomous Turbine Initiative Engine.
Me: Wow! I’m going to start signing my e-mails that way.
Co-Worker Jack: That would be awesome, especially since it took me a while to figure out what to use for the i in your name.
Me: I appreciate the effort. I’ll make all of my e-mails look like automated replies.
Excited about my new title, I IMed my patent lawyer boyfriend to brag:
Kamran: Sounds like the title of a patent.
me: Indeed.
Kamran: We should patent you!
me: I’m useful.
Kamran: And inventive. Totally non-obvious.
me: You’re so sweet.
It’s okay if this is only clever to me.
