Tag Archives: jobby jobby job job

It’s Not Cool to Brag About Being a Drunk

Posted by plumpdumpling on May 13, 2009 – 10:29 am
Filed under all of my friends are prettier than i am, jobby jobby job job, par-tay
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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’

Posted by plumpdumpling on April 27, 2009 – 11:50 am
Filed under jobby jobby job job
Tagged as ,

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

Posted by plumpdumpling on February 20, 2009 – 1:58 pm
Filed under bigtime celebrity, funner times on the bus, jobby jobby job job, living in new york is neat, narcissism
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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

here

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.

Posted by plumpdumpling on December 11, 2008 – 10:28 pm
Filed under holidays don't suck for me, jobby jobby job job
Tagged as ,

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

Posted by plumpdumpling on November 19, 2008 – 11:27 am
Filed under jobby jobby job job, my uber-confrontational personality, too much information
Tagged as , , ,

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:

TO SEE THE LARGEST PUBIC HAIR IN EXISTENCE,
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.