monster sarcasm rally

I keep going back to the idea bookfraud had last week. He suggested that Chris should write an advice column. I like the idea. I think I'm going to get him to do that. And by 'get him to do that', I mean 'do that and sign his name to it'. Much the same way I did for Sarcastor the Truly Stubborn, but without all the pesky good intentions.

So here's the deal. Tell me all your sad, sob stories. I'll read your letters to Chris and take his dictation as he advises you on how to deal with your issues (keep in mind: he is illiterate). Sign your real name, your fake name or no name at all. Chris will answer whichever letters he finds interesting.

We'll try this out for a while and see how it goes.

On a related note...
We found a hand-written message on the board when we got home on Friday night. It was from Chris. It said,

Hey all you pimps and hoes. Take off you're close we're havin a nakid party.
Get down all the pimps and hoes.

But if you've been dying to hear my voice, perhaps this'll help you imagine it: Anne tells me that Ford does a wicked impression of me.

He speaks a word. Waits a few minutes. Speaks a second word. Waits a few minutes. Speaks a third word. Says 'erm' a few times. Waits a few minutes. Speaks another word. Pauses. Squeals 'ooh, cookies!' He runs off.

On Friday night CbKE, Ford and I went to the movies. The theatre, which was somewhat larger than my car, was packed when we arrived. We took the three remaining seats: in front of a gaggle of giggling teenage girls and next to a couple looking for a dark place to make out. They were tired of being interrupted by her mother, who kept asking them if they wanted more cookies. They tried using his 1992 Honda Civic, but the cops kept banging on the window and asking them if everything was all right.

The lights dimmed and we sat through 16 commercials, pleading with us all to join the army and buy this spiffy new brand of toothpaste. Then we watched a series of trailers. Personally, I'm really looking forward to Kindergarten CopThe Pacifier. Finally, we get to discover Vin Diesel's softer side.

Eventually, they woke us all up to announce that the feature film was about to start. I hope I'm not giving too much away when I tell you that the movie opens with a little girl lying on a merry-go-round. (Funny, isn't that the little girl who's in every movie lately?) She spins faster and faster as her mother pushes her. The girl and her mother are both giggling. (Hmm... Interesting. Totally not the opening I would have expected for Constantine...)

Robert DeNiro appears behind them. (What? Robert DeNiro? I didn't know he was in this.)

Suddenly we're all asking each other which theatre we're in. (Is this Constantine? Are you here for Constantine? Did we accidentally walk into the wrong theatre?)

On screen, the mother is now putting her daughter to bed. It's all very sweet and plodding.

The entire theatre is now grumbling that this is definitely not the right movie. Somebody goes out in search of the theatre staff. A face appears in the projection room. It looks at the projector and the screen and then disappears.

A while later the movie stops. A teenage girl appears and announces that they are searching for the correct reel so that our movie can begin. Somebody asks if we get free popcorn.

No.

[humming... twiddling thumbs... awkward conversation...]

Eventually, the room dims again. We are pleaded with to join the army and use this spiffy new toothpaste. We watch a different set of trailers. After a while, we're woken up to enjoy our feature presentation.

I'm bored, so I think I'll tell you an old, old story. This one's even older than the monkey one. It goes back to my teenage days in good old Edmonton.

I spent some time working the overnight drive-thru at McD's. Now, before you go berating me for my choice in job, keep in mind that this was a long time ago and I was a different person then. And besides... Overnights were just sooooooo entertaining.

At five o'clock we had the customer changeover. The first of the early risers started to make their appearance, while the last of the post-bar crowd were still trickling in.

On this particular night a group of three guys in their late teens came through. The driver seemed sober, but the other two were clearly out of their respective trees. They were all in good moods. Silly, but good-natured... I served them and they pulled into the parking lot to eat.

A few minutes later a Cranky Old Git squealed past the menu board and came to a screeching halt at the pick-up window. I opened the window and was just opening my mouth to speak, when he started shouting.

COG: [pissed off and shouting] Call the police!
Me: [confused and stammering] I'm sorry, sir. What happened?
COG: [still shouting] I said, call the police...
Me: Why? What happened?
COG: ...to pick up the trash!
Me: [really confused] What?
COG: [repeats himself while pointing at the drunk guys eating in the parking lot] I said, call the police to pick up the trash!
Me: I'm sorry, sir, but if you want me to call the police I need to know why. What did they do?
COG: They gave me the finger.
Me: [waiting for rest of story]
COG: Well! What are you waiting for? Go call the police!
Me: I'm sorry, sir. I can't call the police because they gave you the finger.
COG: Are you refusing to do what I tell you???
Me: I'm sorry, sir. I can't call the police because they gave you the finger.
[tires screech as he peels out of the parking lot]

The Cranky Old Git, who had come in every single day until then, didn't come back for six months.

I went and talked to the driver of the other car. He said they'd been eating their food when the Cranky Old Git had pulled into the parking lot. They'd been goofing around, but nothing over the top. When COG drove past them he rolled down his window and shouted a string of obscenities at them. That's why one of them gave him the finger.

When I got home I repeated the story to my mother, She Who Lives in a Bubble. Her response makes the story ten times better.

What finger? Was it a real finger? Where did they get it? Was it in a box?

By popular demand...

A while back Anne started a blog to chronicle her career as a telelmarketer. Said career lasted only a week, and as such there were only two entries in the blog. Immediately afterwards she started her new career as a barrista (to use the stupid, made-up Starbucks term) at a local independent coffee shop.

Knowing first-hand that customers = much funny, I have encouraged her to turn the blog into the Amazing Life of a Coffee-Hating Coffee Queen. She promises she will.

I've activated the link, in the hopes that we can all peer-pressure her into blogging her adventures in coffeeland.

Update:
Read Anne's 'epic tale of one girl's encounters with the stupid kind that is rapidly destroying the earth' at the Spreading Disease of Stupidity.

A few weeks ago I got a raise. A silly little raise... For some reason, the raise was made effective as of the beginning of the year. You know what that means? Yup, back pay.

Today I got my back-pay cheque. It amounts to $125 (before taxes). Oh, isn't that sweet! I could buy, um... something or other.

Friggin'!

I just watched the trailer for the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. First off, they've all got friggin' American accents. Well, except for Martin Freeman, so I guess there's that at least. But still...

Secondly, am I the only one who noticed the fact that Zaphod (now pronounced Zāphod — ugh!) has got one head? One. He's missing a head! Good grief, what's up with that?
______________________________

Matthew wrote in yesterday to bemoan the fact that the wrong Stargate actor is gay. Michael Shanks is the one he really wants. I have bad news for you, Matthew. Anne already has dibs on him. And she'll fight you for him. Sadly, though, his wife would probably have something to say about it.

Besides, the both of you, hello! He's old! Icky! You want to see really hot guys? Look here or here or here. Or here. Okay. I'm going to stop now.
______________________________

I liked ER last night. Did anybody else? Does anybody even watch ER anymore? And yes, Anne, that really does mean that I skipped the season eight episode of Stargate to watch ER. So there!
______________________________

Hmm... How very interesting... Three of the four guys I mentioned are vegetarians. How odd is that?
______________________________

I'm hungry. I'm going to go get me some breakfast.

The US government says it's perplexed as to why Canada would decline to participate in its weapons of mass detruction programme missile defence programme. I say, if the US government really wants to know what it means to be perplexed, they should come to my house and have a conversation with Chris.

It seems Chris was serious about looking for a new line of work. He asked me to edit his covering letter for him.

I looked at it this morning and sent it back to him with a note that he should re-write it. I sent him a link to a site telling him how to write a covering letter. There's no point in correcting the spelling and grammar of a document that is precisely not what it is meant to be.

The funny thing, though, is how he signed the e-mail itself.

cheers
Chris (Stargate SG-1)

P.S: Not the Gay Guy.

Leaving aside the bizarre capitalisation and grammar, is that not just a completely absurd thing to say?

He says he did a lot of drugs in university. I think he could be the poster child for a new anti-drug campaign. Never mind the scrambled egg, kids, this is your brain on drugs.

Hmm... I wonder how long IAMNOTSTRESSED!'s report would be if she didn't repeat entire paragraphs verbatim. Three times!

What? Is she paid by the word?

I have a bad headache. I'm completely exhausted due to four nights in a row of poor and interrupted sleep. I have a cold and my sinuses may explode. And right now, I don't like anybody.

I do, however, have a very, very nice chair.

...that I really don't get women?

Mean what you say! Say what you mean! And, for frig's sake, don't look so surprised when you discover that I actually meant what I said!

I was reading Peeved Michelle's rants about the Smarmy Leprechaun, and it got me thinking about annoying co-workers.

And then my mind wandered a bit.

The following is a true story, but it's an old one. From back in the days when I worked for a large, international copy shop, which recently merged with a large, international delivery company... I was the customer service manager for the Canadian shops. My boss was the operations manager for the same (Executive Monkey No. 1). His boss was the operations director for all shops outside the US (Executive Monkey No. 2).

Periodically, I would have to make presentations to the upper management team (Executive Monkeys Nos. 1-5) regarding trends in customer service. I generally got about two hours notice to pull these presentations out of my arse.

On one such occasion, after spending the morning madly scrambling to create a presentation out of nothing, I passed out my handouts to the team. They immediately started to ooh and aw and make clucking noises.

Executive Monkey No. 1: Oh! It's in colour. That's nice.
Executive Monkey No. 2: How pretty!
Executive Monkey No. 3: Look, there's green, and there's some blue. Oh, and if you turn the page, there's some red!

They all thought of me as an idiot child, hired to do a make-work job, and rubbed my nose in this fact as often as possible. I ignored the absurd comments and proceeded to launch into my presentation.

Since Executive Monkey No. 2 was the only out-of-towner in the bunch and the highest ranking monkey, I began by facing him. Moments into my presentation, he began scratching his, er, package. He didn't seem to care particularly that I was watching, and did absolutely nothing to hide the fact. It seemed like the sort of process that might take quite some time.

I decided to focus my eyes elsewhere. He might not mind people watching him, but I minded being the watcher. I turned to Executive Monkey No. 1, who held the next highest rank. He had his right arm all the way up his nose and was busy digging for gold.

I turned again, and was faced with Executive Monkey No. 3, the CFO. Executive Monkey No. 3 despised Executive Monkeys Nos. 1 & 2. He saw what they were doing, and proceeded to turn a very pretty shade of red. In case there's any confusion here, this is anger we're talking about, not embarrassment.

I gave the remainder of my presentation facing Executive Monkeys Nos. 4 & 5, both of whom were asleep.

Chris continues to perplex us all. The other night we were watching TV when he got home from work. He came in and sat down, saying 'Oh, this is That Show with the Gay Guy*'.

The weird thing was that, when the commercial came on, he made an uncharacteristically insightful and/or witty comment. We all got it and laughed. You know, in a good way. Sadly, I can't recall what on earth it was. But the universe quickly returned to its normal state a moment later, when he started saying things nobody understood.

Yesterday evening Chris told me that he's bored of his job. It's boring, he said. All he ever does is work with numbers and he's tired of it. Umm... He's an accountant (or so he claims). He's been one for all of six months.

Chris: I want to work in the entertainment industry.
Me: Doing what?
Chris: Whatever. Entertaining people...
Me: Like an actor or a comedian?
Chris: Exactly. Except... [short pause] Well, not an actor. Not a comedian. But entertaining people.
Me: What then, stripping?
Chris: Ha ha. Exactly.
[long pause]
Chris: I want to be a promoter for a night club.

Right. There's a promising career. Your over-achieving parents will be so proud. Our son, the drug-addict...

Later last night I had the extreme privilege of listening to a conversation between Ford and Chris. I had gone to bed, and they were in the dining room. My bedroom is next to the dining room and Chris is very, very loud. Ford had just returned from his date-that-was-not-a-date-well-maybe. Chris began to grill him about what had transpired. He was the very image of Eric Idle in the Nudge, Nudge, Wink, Wink sketch. Say no more...

He then proceeded to give Ford all sorts of helpful hints on how to woo a girl. Ford has the sense not to listen. Right? Good grief, I hope Ford has that much sense. Ford, are you listening? Do not take advice from Chris. Ever. On anything. But especially, especially do not take his advice on women. Those aren't the sort of women you want.

*He overheard CbKE, Ford, Anne and I talking about the fact that Christopher Judge, who plays Teal'c on Stargate, is in reality very, very gay. Or possibly just comically, over-the-top camp... Whatever. Flamboyant actor plays stoic character. Chris now refers to Stargate as That Show with the Gay Guy.

Ugh. I had to settle for milk on my corn flakes. How revolting! Apparently, I've heard, some people do this every day.

Why?

Nibbler's gone home. We'll miss her. Well, mostly... I won't miss her favourite game: hide-n-go-poop.

She's too small and delicate to go outside. She's supposed to use these potty pad things. And she does. For peeing. I think she's decided that pooping on them would be indecorous or indelicate or unladylike or something. She prefers to poop in more [ahem] discrete places. You know, behind things or under things.

Either fortunately or unfortunately (depending upon one's point of view), teeny-weeny poops make big, big smells.

We'd be sitting there and all of a sudden the room would be filled with the most noxious fumes since The Dog Whose Name Means Marijuana last visited. It's interesting to note that they're sisters. Hmmm...

Anyways... Noxious fumes... You know there's a poop to contend with, but now you've got to find the poop. Hurray! What a fun game!

On a related note, Cute but Kind of Evil has actually written in her blog. Why is it related, you ask. Read for yourself.

On a vaguely related note, I got another google hit. Nobody ever finds me by googling porn in spite of the frequency of which the word porn appears on this site. Mostly, people find me by searching for 'stewie maxim interview'. I haven't got it, but it is funny. I got a new google hit yesterday: poopooheads. Cool.

What's that old adage about making friends with the administrative staff? Something about all the influence they have and whatever.

First Bridget, and now Jadis... Jadis is she who outlawed plants. I have never had an actual conversation with her. A word here and there, nothing unfriendly... Until today.

I decided to brave some of the Starbucks swill we have here for the simple reason that I may be cheap but I do need my fix.

Uh oh. No cream. Not even any milk. Ugh.

I need cream for my coffee and for my corn flakes, so I decided to do what Meat Guy taught me to do: pilfer some from the Executive Kitchen. I walked over there and opened the fridge. There was a little bit of milk, but no cream. Ugh.

I walked to the front desk. The receptionist wasn't in yet, so Jadis was sitting there. She was talking to somebody, so I waited. When she finished her conversation she turned to me.

'Yes', she said in a voice that could easily freeze all Narnia. 'What can I do for you?'

I asked her if she knew if there was any cream anywhere.

'For what?', she demanded. As though I clearly had some evil plans for it... Like I wanted to steal the company's cream and sell it on the black market for fun and profit...

When I said it was for coffee, she asked me if I'd looked. Of course I looked, you self-righteous, illegitimate offspring of a vapid whore and an eight-timing politician with cheese for brains! Did she think I walked all the way from my desk because I was too stupid to look in the fridge?

When I said I had looked, she asked me if I had found any. Again, if I had found any, why on earth would I walk all the way out to the reception area to ask if there were any?

'Well, then there isn't any'.

And that, dear reader, is why I went downstairs and bought a ridiculously expensive but oh-so-good latte from my old friend, Timothy.

I'm still drinking the coffee I bought this morning on my way to work.

As I walked to work, I (mentally) wrote a whole post on coffee and coffee shops and different neighbourhoods. I haven't had time to put it together. Oh well, maybe tomorrow.

One of the analysts quit yesterday. I'm wondering... Hmm... His office is quite a ways from my mini-cube. I don't know if I could get away with it. I got my snazzy mouse this way. The company has no objection to spending money on 'real' staff, but, as the editor, I count as support staff.

I might go get me a chair.

But a chair's a bit more noticeable than a mouse. Wheeling it down the office, smacking into people, knocking stuff over, I'd draw a fair amount of attention to myself. If Bridget Jones liked me, I'd get away with it. As it is, my continued existence is a constant source of irritation to her. I'm sure she'd relish the chance to take an undeserved luxury away from me. She'd probably point out that I was only worth the $35 Ikea model. Nicer chairs are reserved for people who earn them; you know, like the analysts, the assistants, the Ferengi, New Chick, the out of town employees who come to the office every so often, and that office the plants used to use.

I know! I'll get New Chick to make the swap once everybody else has gone home.

Ha!
_____________________________

Update:
The bond traders all got new chairs yesterday. I swiped one of their old ones. It's a goood chair: comfy, supportive, solid. It looks like somebody spilled some coffee on it. I mean, I hope that's coffee. Oh, and get this: it's Beandog-coloured, meaning my chair will no longer look as though he's the one who's been sitting in it. Well, actually it will, but not noticeably so. Whatever. It's comfy.
_____________________________

Update to the update:
Last night New Chick took the chair I swiped from the bond desk and swapped it with the one I really wanted.

Sweet success!

It looks like I'm going to have to do some, like, work at work this morning.

[sigh]

Today I have had four bagels (one with cheese and three plain), a cup of coffee, a plate of pasta with veggies and tomato sauce, and some chocolate. Now granted that's not exactly excessive or anything, but it should be enough that I'm not absolutely starving.

You might want to steer clear of my desk this afternoon. You never know what I might be capable of.

For some reason, this reminds me of a study Meat Guy forwarded to me one time 'proving' that vegetarians are more likely to suddenly go off the rails and start killing everybody.

I just went over to help myself to another one of the yummy Montreal bagels. They're sitting on a desk right next to the outgoing mail tray. As I was making off with my third breakfast treat of the day, I noticed the envelope on the top of the stack. It appeared to be a note-card. The envelope was a pretty blue one and the name and address were hand-written in loopy, girly writing. The name on the envelope was Mr P Martin.

What? Can it be? Does somebody in this office have a personal relationship with the Prime Minister of the country? Is it a birthday card? A thanks-for-last-night card? A note asking him to please dig his head out of his arse and notice that we voted him in* not because he's as freakin' awesome as he thinks he is, but simply for lack of a viable alternative.

The fact that it was curly, girly writing leads me to the only logical conclusion: he's having an affair with one of the women in the office. The Prime Minister of Canada is having an extramarital affair. And you heard it here first.

Is it too soon to go back for a fourth helping of breakfast?

*That's 'we' in the collective sense, not the personal sense. I voted Green.

Guess what! I got a dishwasher! Yes, another one. But the crazy part is this: it actually works. I put dishes in, turn it on, go away, and when I come back they're clean. How ridiculous is that!

Some chick from our Montreal office is in. On her way to the airport this morning, she stopped and picked up a big ol' whack of fresh bagels for everybody. I've had two so far. Life is good. Nay, life is delicious. For those of you who don't get that... Toronto bagels are round bits of fluffy bread with holes punched in the centre. Montreal makes bagels for real.

I still owe more on my car than it's presently worth. Thus trading it in for a different one would be dumb.

I will not be dumb.
I will not be dumb.
I will not be dumb.

For the first time in the history of the known universe, the Ferengi called in sick.

Cute but Kinda Evil has the week off school. She's vowed to spend it cooking. Have I mentioned that life is delicious?

I might go buy a digital camera this week.

Sarcastor the Truly Stubborn finally started his new job on Thursday. This is his second new job of the year. It also happens to be The Job, the one he's been talking about since he was first pushed into retirement by the Evil Corporation.

On Thursday evening he sent me an e-mail saying that he was disappointed by his performance, but hopefully things would improve. On Friday evening he sent me an e-mail saying that he wanted to quit. I responded by saying that it was one bad day, not all days are bad, it would get better, blah blah positive blah.

STS: Friday wasn't a bad day. What makes you think I had a bad day?
Me: You said you wanted to quit.
STS: Oh that.
Me: Why did you say you wanted to quit if it was actually a good day?
STS: To get a reaction out of you.

Late Saturday night I got another e-mail from him. He said there was a problem with the Jedi*. I asked what is was. I got an e-mail back almost immediately. He said that they just couldn't afford to keep it. I asked how he expected to do his job, since his job is driving. I got a message back just as I was getting into bed. He said they'd have to buy something cheaper. Whatever. I got into bed and went to sleep.

It probably gives away entirely too much about me if I say that the first thing I do in the mornings is check my e-mail, but oh well. There was another one from Sarcastor ten minutes after the previous one. 'Well', he demanded. 'Aren't you going to respond?'

I spoke to my parents on the phone a little while later. My dad immediately launched into their tragic tale (as he put it). The warranty on the Jedi would expire in a few months. The car is two and a half years old, but has needed a fair amount of repairs already. They decided that they couldn't afford the repairs without the warranty. They decided to extend the warranty.

Bubble went into the dealership to pay for the extended warranty. It was $400 up front and then would add $200 per month to their car payments for the remainder of the term. She was about (a boot) to hand over the cash, when she suddenly had an idea. She walked from the service department to the showroom. She went to the sales dude and asked him how much a new one would be.

It turned out that buying a brand new one would not only eliminate the need for the additional $200 a month for the warranty, it would also reduce their payments by $25 per month. She signed all the paperwork and drove home. They pick the new one up in a couple of weeks.

Bah. You know, the only reason he bought the 2003 in the first place was because I bought my Jedi that year and suddenly I had a newer car than he did. Mine's a 1999. I don't care about the age, but now I want to go trade mine in for a TDI. Oh well, at least mine has a better stereo than his does**.

*For some reason all the VW literature still calls them Jettas. How absurd.

**We're a little competitive, Sarcastor and I...

Um... Never mind.

Theory, right... Erm... Good Looking, who as previously mentioned is IAMNOTSTRESSED!'s assistant, is a very calm, placid, easy-going guy. IAMNOTSTRESSED! has a way of winding up everybody around her. Even idle chit chat with her has the same effect as a double espresso.

So I got to thinking. What would he be like without her winding him up all day every day? He'd be dead. Or at least in a coma. She's just doing her part to keep him alive and conscious.

Now that pissed me off! I was in the midst of writing this post when the screen suddenly flashed to an Infernal Server Error message. Grr. Argh.

Anyways… On with the rewrite…

We have one female analyst here. And she’s crazy. I’ve nearly written about her on approximately 57 occasions, but I haven’t been able to for the simple reason that I haven’t been able to come up with a suitable pseudonym. But I think I’m just going to call her IAMNOTSTRESSED! and get on with it.

One time (not at band camp), the Ferengi suggested to her that she should try yoga. IAMNOTSTRESSED! twirled her hair, chewing on the ends of it (to see what she looks like, click here), as she responded.

Ohyoga’sgreatIusedtodoyogawhenIlivedinNewYorkbecause
backthenIwasreallyunderalotofstressbutnowthatI’mnot
stressedoutanymoreIdon’treallyneedtodoyogaanymorebut
Iknow hatit’stotallyworthwhileandifI’meverunderthatmuch
stress againI’lldomorebutfornowsinceI’mnotunderanystress
Ijust don’tneedtodoyoga.

Um… Right. She’s famous for sending people work, and then phoning every five minutes to see if they’re done yet.

This morning she published a document, by which of course I mean that she sent me a document for me to publish. I started working on it, but for some reason the PDF kept failing. Microsoft and Adobe do not play well together. I was in the middle of trying to fix the problem when my phone rang. Guess who…

See, I could actually get her document published quicker if she didn’t call me and ask me how long it was going to be and what was wrong and when I would be finished and what I was doing to rectify the problems with the PDF because she had a client meeting in two minutes and she had to take this document with her. [pauses for breath] I finally manage to get her off the phone by promising to e-mail her as soon as the document's up on the web.

I fix it. Post it. E-mail her.

Her assistant, Good Looking, shows up at my desk several seconds later to tell me that there’s a mistake and it needs to be redone. Before he can even tell me what the problem is, my phone rings. She’s panicking because there’s a mistake and she has a client meeting right now. Okay. Good Looking’s here. We’ll fix it. We’ll republish it. We’ll re-e-mail you. Okay.

Good Looking tells me to remove one sentence. I do. I republish the document. I re-e-mail her.

My phone rings immediately. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa! She's screaming because I removed the sentence. But Good Looking told me to remove the sentence. Nooooooooooooooooo! One word. One word was supposed to be removed! And she’s late for a client meeting.

I re-redo it. I re-re-e-mail her. She goes to her client meeting. I tell Good Looking what happened. He starts screaming obscenities and stomps off to his office.

I eat my lunch contentedly, knowing I have subject matter for another blog post.

Crap. Poop. Darn. [unintelligible muttering] And arse.

I'm under a lot of pressure. When I started this blog, I had me for a reader. Then I added Anne and She Who Defies Encapsulation in a Single Pseudonym. The Saint stopped by, and boldly refused to leave. Then Martin and Buster. I can't remember who came next, but you did. You kept coming. And for every person who stumbled in here and muttered 'What the hell kind of nonsense is this?' and kept on going, another one strolled in and stayed. Well, okay, maybe not 1:1. Maybe not even 10:1, but enough. Since the beginning of the year I've been averaging about 50 visitors per weekday. This week I'm up to nearly 100.

I'm not sure I'm up to it. What if I just can't, you know, deliver? I'm smart. I'm competent. I'm capable. My mother told me so, so it must be true. Right?

But I don't know. This might just be too much. People have expectations, you know?

Besides, there's only so much room in my head. What's wrong with me that I need to keep creating more and more imaginary people? Can somebody please psychoanalyse me? Can somebody please medicate me and make me all better. You know, make me normal...

Wait. Normal? I don't want to be normal. Who said anything about normal? I did. No, I didn't. I don't want to be normal. I don't want to be okay. I want to be strange and bizarre and incomprehensible. No, I don't. Yes, I do. Maybe. Who's head is this anyways? It's mine. It's mine. It's mine. How many of me are there? Just one. One. Twelve. Okay, everybody, shut up! I'm monologuing here! Just hold your peace until all the nice, imaginary readers leave the room.

Sorry about that. [fusses with hair] Where was I? Right. Pressure... All of a sudden I have all these people who come here every day, or every week, or whenever they get bored. It's just a lot of responsibility.

Every day as I walk to work or sit on the horrible streetcar, I think about the fact that you're all waiting for me to turn on my computer and start with the funny. I think about all the stupid/trivial/entertaining/infuriating/happy/sad/boring events in my life and plan out how to write them as funny. Then I do it and I feel relieved and accomplished and proud.

But some days, like today for instance, I just can't think of anything to say. And then I panic. I mean, you all keep coming here, eagerly waiting for the funny. Only there's nothing. What if the well's run dry? What if there is no more? What if I just can't do it?

Okay. I'd go on, but I really have to go to the toilet.

Oh look, the funny little man who talks about the fact that his girlfriend’s the same age as his daughter and who makes daily Python references that fly over the heads of the rest of the office is on TV. I wonder why.

Oh wait, I don’t care.

I want my dishwasher back already. They came and picked it up on Tuesday, which (by the way) is not the same thing as Monday, and said they hoped it'd be done by the end of the week. Funny, I had hoped it would be done last Saturday. For that matter, I had hoped it would work when it was first delivered to my house!

On a related note, Shane pissed me off but good yesterday.

On Tuesday he and Gina cooked an elaborate meal and left all their dirty dishes and pots and pans and disgusting raw sausage bits and went upstairs to make like bunnies. I washed all their dishes. On Wednesday they made another elaborate meal, which they proceeded to leave spread over every surface in the kitchen and dining room. Cute but Kinda Evil washed all their dishes.

Here's the kicker... On Wednesday, along with the disgusting mess, Shane left an enormous note telling everybody to clean up after themselves. He's been doing this a lot lately: grumbling about the state of cleanliness, while being the worst offender.

Gee, how very like the Complaining Wonder. The Complaining Wonder whinged vociferously and to anybody and everybody that our house was disgusting. He was horrified by everything, and yet he was far and away the worst mess-maker. It's one thing to cook and then not do your dishes right away. It's another to cook and leave everything wherever it lands for days on end. Greasy frying pans with bits of meat still in them left on the stove... Open pots of pasta left on the counter... The stove-top covered with grease, tomato sauce, sauce-covered stirring utensils, bits of unidentifiable food... The kitchen table covered with dirty cutting boards, leftover bits of raw vegetables, open tins with most of the contents removed... The counter covered with plates still covered in sauce and leftover food... The dining room table topped off with half-empty glasses of whatever...

The Complaining Wonder eventually declared that he was going to move out, which was absolutely fine with us. To top things off, though, he talked about the house as being 'intolerable'. You want to tell me you don't like my house: fine. You don't like living there: fine. You hate it with every fibre of your skinny, little being: cool. Whatever. What I have a problem with is his refusal to accept responsibility for his feelings. If he hates the house, that's his right. To say that the living conditions in the house were 'absolutely intolerable' makes a statement about anybody who lives there, anybody who chooses to live there. I don't find my house intolerable. I love my house.

Um... I have no idea where that came from. This was meant to be a short post about the fact that the dishwasher's still in the shop.

1. It's not even nine o'clock and the Ferengi's pissing me off real good. Believe it or not, if there is an incompetent idiot around here, it sure as hell ain't me. Piss off.
   
2. My corn flakes kick your corn flakes' sorry little butts.
3. Every day when I'm walking to and from work, I pass by people in expensive work-out clothes exercising in over-priced gyms. Instead of paying a monthly fee to exercise, I save $4 a day by not taking transit.
4. If I order a regular coffee and then hand you my travel mug, then I want a regular coffee. The fact that my mug is bigger than a regular coffee is irrelevant. I'm not trying to rip you off, I just want a regular coffee.
5. My work provides free coffee. I have decided it's not worth the price. Every day I pour a cup and drink about an ounce before I arrive at a state of complete disgust and pour it down the drain. Friggin' Starbucks. As of this morning, I've switched to tea. I don't think it's working.
6. (09.41) Sarcastor the Truly Stubborn starts another new job today. He's excited and has been sending me several e-mails a day about it. Oddly, though, he spells the company name differently with every single one. My dad has some of the worst and weirdest spelling ever. He frequently uses 'and' for 'an'.
7. (10.08) Screw it. I'm going for coffee. I'll pass the Ferengi the changes I marked up for her on my way out. She can complain to my empty desk.
   

More to follow...

When I was getting dressed this morning I discovered a grand total of three black socks. Three. For those of you non-math types: three is a number not readily divisible by two, which is the number of feet I have.

Now, if two of the three had matched, everything would have been fine. But they didn't. I have three solitary, unique, black socks. On principle I don't object to wearing non-matched socks. I try not to wear ones that are wildly different in colour when I'm going to work. Aside from that, it's all good. The trick, however, is to wear two socks that feel the same. These ones don't. And it's pissing me off.

Oh look! It's a post that's not about browsers or html or web design software or my own ineptitude.

I took the streetcar to work the other day. I can't remember why, but I did. As I was standing, I looked over at somebody's newspaper. A headline jumped out at me.

Heart Tattoos No Longer Fashionable

What! Promise me that's not true! I don't want people to think I'm unfashionable. Then I might not be popular anymore. What if people stop loving me because I'm permanently branded as out of style?

But sarcastrix, you don't seem like somebody who'd get a heart tattoo. We figure'd you'd have bizarre and unusual tattoos.

Of course I haven't got a heart tattoo, you idiot! What do you think, I'd actually walk into a place and demand a pretty red heart with ribbons and bows running through it? Hello! As if.

No, I have a kidney bean tattooed on my arm. The problem is that people are stupid. When I tell them it's a bean, they say 'Oh, I thought it was a heart'. Again: people are stupid. Why would my dog be eating a heart? More importantly, why would I want a tattoo of my dog eating a heart? That's gross.

Dudes, he's eating a bean. Once and for all, that's a bean in his mouth. It even looks like a kidney bean. You have to stretch your imagination all the way to Cleveland to make it look like a heart. Maybe people just don't expect to see a kidney bean inked onto somebody's arm and their minds grasp at straws. Why? Again: people are dumb.

But anyways... As if it's not bad enough that people think I have a little, itty bitty heart tattooed on my arm, now they're going to think it's a little, itty bitty unfashionable heart.

Great. Thanks.

Now piss off, the lot of you.

I successfully downloaded illegal software (Firefox) onto my work computer.

Take that, you evil, control-freak, uniformity-loving IT department poopooheads!

Well, kids... I tried my best and I failed miserably. The lesson, in the words of a wise, wise man, is 'Never try'.

Update:
Well, I guess I hadn't learned my lesson because I kept trying. Eventually I came up with this, which I don't love, but at least I don't hate.

One question for you Firefox/Mozilla/Netscape/Sarfari users out there (I'm thinking Carrie and Cat, but anybody who has an answer, please jump in)... What's with the stupid bullets down the side? They don't show up in the GoLive preview nor in Explorer. How do I make them go away?

Poop. The new design doesn't work on Safari, which is Mozilla-based. So no Safari, no Mozilla, no Netscape and no Firefox. Grr. Argh.

I'll have to switch back to the old template when I get to work in the morning. Leave this until I have time to figure this out properly...

Grr. Argh.

Right.

Yesterday building services came around and collected all the plants from our office. Nobody knew why or what was going on. Word came down from the office manager today. She ordered them all taken away because:

1. we keep killing them; and
2. we don't have room.

First off, since building services looks after the plants, wouldn't it be they that committed the alleged herbicide? Secondly, just how much room did she think they were taking up? It's not like they had their own office or anything.

I don't actually like plants or anything, I just think this is sort of stupid. I think there's an entirely other reason for the removal of the plants, something they don't want us to know about. My theories so far are as follows.

• The plants failed to meet their semi-annual quota. If you're not bringing money into the firm, you must be sucking it out.
• The plants' reminded employees of the existence of a world outside of the office. Such ideas are not to be tolerated.
• The plants failed to conform to the office colour standards of beige and grey. The existence of colours outside this spectrum may cause creativity amongst employees. This will not be tolerated.

Since I can't help but notice that they left the one artificial plant, in spite of the fact that it was by far the biggest, I am forced to conclude that this must have something to do with the removal of its compatriates.

• The living plants absorb carbon monoxide and breathe out oxygen. This causes employees to be healthy and alert. Healthy and alert employees have lives outside of the office. This is not acceptable.
• The plants served as a reminder that it was possible to exist without constant paranoia and stress. This, also, is unacceptable.

I had something to say. I'm sure of it. It's gone now and I'm annoyed.

Bah! I liked the green better. The green suits me better. Sadly, though, the little death dude at the bottom of the page doesn't work with the green. He's got a red outline around him. Until I can figure out how to rid him of his red halo and retain the clipping path, I guess we'll go with the red.

And yes, thank you, my Photoshop skills are fine. I'm perfectly aware of how to do a clipping path. It's my web skills that are the problem.

Bah!

Update:
Grr. Argh. It's just not working for me. I don't like it. It's almost there, but it's not there. Maybe I'll have to put some effort into learning HTML.

Or maybe I'll stop obsessing about my blog and do some of the work I get paid so much to do.

Right.

I picked up the Miniature Dominatrix last night. In some ways she lives up to the name, but at the same time, she's a whiny little child. Ford suggested she's rather like Nibbler, so Nibbler she shall be from here on out.

She started off by running around the house eating crumbs off the floor, sneezing repeatedly, and pooping on the dining room floor. After a while, the excitement of the new surroundings wore off.

I was in the dining room talking to Shane and Gina. Beandog was asleep at my feet. The Stinky Monkey was in the living room, sharing an intellectual moment with Chris (they have a lot in common). Nibbler sat at the entrance to the dining room, looking relaxed and content. She looked around a bit, watching each of us in turn.

All of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, she threw back her head and howled. I mean howled. This was one of the most ungodly noises I have ever heard. I very nearly jumped up and poured a cup of tea, since it sounded almost identical to our demon-possessed tea kettle.

She's weird.

Does it work for you?

Oh, and to all my non-blogging, non-commenting readers (I know you're out there), you can now post a comment quite easily without the hassle of signing up for anything. At least I think you can. Just click down there on the number of comments. Then hit post a comment.

Update:
I apologise for stupidity of the links in the sidebar. Blogrolling's handy in that it makes it super-easy to add links, but I think I'm going to go back to linking to you all the old-fashioned way. It allows me do more fine-tuning. But it'll have to wait a bit, so please put up with the ugly sidebar for a little while.

Oh, and if anything looks dumb, let me know. It's (probably) just a mistake on my part.

Whose blog was I reading this morning? The writer called somebody Captain Obvious.

New Chick is a touch naïve. She's gone out with the guys from one of the other departments a few times. She's asked me to join them. I'd have no objection to going out with her (so long as she kept her feet sealed up all night), but I have no interest in going out with them.

These guys... Hmm... You know the type... In high school they were the nerds. In university they formed a bit of a club. They studied business. They partied hard, but made sure they passed all their courses. They weren't cool, though. No matter how hard they partied, they still weren't cool. They smoked a lot of weed and talked about how different things would be once they were making the big bucks. After university, most of them moved back in with their parents.

They drive flashy cars and hang out at the coolest bars. They buy drinks for every woman that says hello to them. They talk about how important their jobs are. Money comes up in every conversation. For Angel/Buffy fans, Cordelia once went on a date with a guy like this. He kept talking about money and himself and his money and soybean futures. They were attacked by a demon, and the dude jumped in his expensive car and drove away, screaming like a little girl.

Anyways... I don't actually know them, but I can tell that much just from meeting them once or twice.

Today new chick told me a big sordid tale of how she drank too much on Friday night. One of the guys offered to let her crash at his place. She accepted, since hers was about a $75 cab fare away. When they got to his apartment, he started putting the moves on her. She was surprised.

On a side note, she said at one point he started massaging her feet! How he got within 12 metres of her unshod feet, I do not know. I guess that's evidence of just how far these guys will go to get what they want.

I couldn't help but stare blankly at her as she told me how surprised and upset she was that he tried something. I mean really. There are nice guys and then there are guys who will say/do/be anything you want so that they can get what they want. These are not 'nice'. They are acting like they think she wants them to in the hopes that she will sleep with one of them. Hello!

Um... I think I had a point, but I really have to go to the bathroom and I don't remember what it was.

I've been working on a new template for my site, and here it is! Sadly, Rachel informs me that my comments are down. Apparently I haven't mastered GoLive/HTML as much as I'd thought. I'm working on it.

For now, send your spam, gripes, comments to beandog[at]rogers[dot]com.

Update:
Okay, so a few of you got a brief look at the new template I'm working on. The rest of you will have to wait until I learn some more HTML.

The dishwasher dude decided that he couldn't fix it at my house. He can fix it, but in the shop. So, no dishwasher 'til Thursday.

The Stinky Monkey went for his vaccinations this past Saturday. He was sick and sore and subdued all weekend. Even Beandog was worried.

The upstairs toilet (that'd be the Boys' Washroom) still ain't working. The plumber fixed it a few weeks ago, so this should still be covered under warranty. However, my landlady hasn't paid him for the original work, so he's hesitant to come out and fix it.

The kitchen sink works beautifully, which is handy for when we have to wash those motherlodes of dirty dishes. (Right Anne?)

The Stinky Monkey's girlfriend, the Miniature Dominatrix, will be staying with us this week. She's three pounds of attitude. Imagine a friggin' rat with large, furry ears: that's her. I'll post pictures when I get a chance.

Anne enjoys being the subject of my blogs.

Chris continues to perplex us all. This weekend he had a date. He was disappointed that nothing came of it. We all suggested to him that — perhaps — next time he could try showing up less than an hour late. Or, you know, call to say 'I'm running a bit behind because I'm busy sitting in my dining room drinking beer and talking about nothing'.

Gina and Shane continue to make like bunnies. Things took an unexpected turn this weekend, though, as it seems they actually like one another. They've decided to give dating a whirl. Each other, I mean. Those wacky kids! What'll be next: friendship?

Ford does a mean impression of Ron Weasley.

I'm fiddling with GoLive to try and create an all new template for this blog. I'm having fun, but stupid work keeps interrupting me.

I just spilled coffee in my eyes, so I guess it's time to go back to sleep work.

Setting: A plain, grey cubicle in a plain, beige office. Our heroine is dialling the phone.

Generic Female Voice: Addison Used Appliance. [I hate my job.]
Sarcastrix: Hi. I came in on the weekend and bought a dishwasher. It doesn't work. When I turn it on, nothing happens. I've tried different cycles, different electrical outlets. Nothing. [I paid for a dishwasher, and yet I'm still washing everybody's dishes by hand!]
GFV: What do you mean it doesn't work? What does it do? [These young people today, always trying to get away with something...]
S: Nothing. It does nothing. No matter what I do, it does nothing. [How do you not get that from 'nothing'?]
GFV: Why? [My fingernails need more filing and they could do with another coat of this lovely fire engine red paint.]
S: I don't know why. I've tried everything I can think of, but it won't do anything. [What the hell kind of question is that?]
GFV: Well, I don't know what could have happened to it. [I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I'm not falling for it.]
S: Neither do I. I need you guys to either fix it or trade it for a different one. [Maybe even one that works!]
GFV: We'll fix it. It's obviously something quite simple. [So you're trying to scam your way into a more expensive model, are you?]
S: Okay. [Whatever.]
GFV: I'll get the service manager. [I think I'm going to go have another drink. What the hell, it's almost lunch time.]
S: Okay. [You do that.]


[shockingly not over-long pause]

Generic Male Voice: Hi. I understand you bought a dishwasher. [Crap, Evelyn's on the sauce again.]
S: Yes, I did. It doesn't work. [Am I going to have to explain everything again?]
GMV: What does it do? [I'm going to make you explain everything again.]
S: It doesn't do anything. [Kinda like you, I'm thinking.]
GMV: You know you have to pull the little knob, right? [Dumb chick.]
S: Yes, I know that. [Are you for real?]
GMV: It won't work unless you turn it on. [Why do I get all the idiots? Who doesn't know how to turn a dishwasher on?]
S: I'm aware of that. I would like you to fix it or replace it, and I would like you to do it today. [Like for real...]
GMV: Okay. I'll come by tomorrow and have a look. [I'll show you how to use the knob, little lady.]
S: When? [What am I supposed to sit home all day and wait?]
GMV: When I have time. [You can just wait for me in some pretty little neg-luh-jee.]
S: Great. [Bite me, you great lumbering oaf.]
GMV: See you then. [I wonder if Evelyn's got any of that scotch left.]
S: Bye. [*unintelligible screaming*]

I had to use New Chick's computer this morning. She wasn't in yet, and I needed to finish up one of the jobs she started yesterday.

Hypothetically, this shouldn't have been a big deal. Because of the aforementioned (hee hee) sensitive issue, however, it was.

She wasn't here at the time. Her shoes were inside a closed drawer. There shouldn't have been a problem. Oh, for the love of all that is holy and pure and decent and all that, there shouldn't have been a problem.

Instead, I sat in her chair (How did she rate a fancy, schmancy ergonomic chair, when I've got the $35 Ikea model?) choking back the bile that came rushing into my throat. My stomach twisted and turned and tears flowed freely from my eyes, stinging my cheeks, as my nose (in conjuction with my brain) sought to punish every part of my body for the torture it was forced to endure.

I realised something. I don't actually have any ambition to 'climb the corporate ladder' or 'move ahead' (or whatever other metaphor all the cool kids are using these days) in my current workplace; however, if I did, I would be held back by two things.

For starters, I'm too technically inclined. Not only do I surf the web all by myself and check my own e-mail, but I can also use all the fancy, schmancy software on my machine. Well, at this point I'm not exactly proficient with all the exciting web design software that came with the Adobe Suite, but I'm slowly teaching to myself to use them. And on top of that, I can fix the printer/copier. People don't call Xerox anymore, they call me. It takes the Xerox guy a few hours to show up, whereas I'm right here.

Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, I'm just too darned tall. This was driven home to me yesterday following our quarterly staff meeting. My boss's boss gave a long and entirely uninteresting presentation. When he was finally finished we all stood up. There are probably four men in our section (50 people) who are taller than me. But I've got heels. With my heels, I come out on top — so to speak. Not a single woman comes within an inch of my height. There's a noticeable inverse correlation between a person's physical stature and his/her position in the corporate hierarchy. Sadly, this means that the Princess will one day rule the entire company and, quite possibly, the universe. Hopefully, I will not live to see the day.

This afternoon's episode of Monster Sarcasm Rally is a repeat.

As an addendum, though, I would like to point out the fact that in Canada, we alternate randomly between the words ass and arse. Personally, I think dumbass is just the coolest word ever; however, in most other instances I think I prefer 'arse'. Bill, though, is both an ass and an arse. Additionally, he is both a prig and a prick.

Sorry, I still haven't worked my way up to speaking the word out loud. Apparently I'm okay with writing it, though.

I called around to get quotes. The first place I called said it would be $80 per hour. Obviously, without seeing anything, they couldn't tell me how long the work would take. The woman said it was rare for it to take more than an hour to replace a set of taps, but it could happen. The next place I called said it would be $50 to come out to tell me how much it would be. I asked what the hourly rate was. I was told that they don't charge by the hour, they charge by the job. Well, if the job takes one hour and requires no parts, how much would it be? She said that only the plumber could answer that, and again it's $50 to get him to answer that.

I called the first company back and arranged for the plumber to come by that afternoon.

He was supposed to be there at 5.30. I rushed home from work to get there before him. At 6.15 his office called to say that he would be arriving at 7.00. At 8.15 his office called to say he would be there momentarily. At 9.00 he arrived.

I showed him the problem and what I had done so far. He said it was no problem. He assured me that it was very straightforward and that it wouldn't take very long.

I went and sat in the living room with Ford and Anne. The plumber came to the door at 9.35 to say that he was finished. I went into the kitchen. The new taps were on. They worked. Everything was done. Yippee!

The plumber went to put his tools back in his van and get his invoice book. We sat down at 9.40 to do the paperwork. Then he handed me a bill for $140 plus tax.

Nope. Not a chance. I was quoted $80 per hour. The job took you 40 minutes. I will pay you $80 and not a penny more. Round and round we went. This, he assured me, was the flat rate for replacing kitchen taps. $80, I assured him, was the hourly rate I'd been quoted. Some taps, he said, took longer than an hour so the flat rate had to incorporate that. My taps, I reminded him, took 40 minutes. He had been here for a full hour, he lied. Whatever, I said. I'm not paying for more than an hour. $140 is the flat rate, he repeated, assuming the taps take only one hour. Then he showed me somebody else's bill. They had paid $260 (plus parts) to have their taps replaced. Not my problem, I said.

Round and round and round.

In the end, he wrote me a bill for $140 and I gave him what I promised. I told him I would take the remainder up with his office the next day. I'll be writing them a letter stating that they have received all the money they're going to be receiving.

I'm very good at writing professional, polite letters that nonetheless make it abundantly clear that I ain't budging. I like writing them and I do so to great effect. If I do say so myself...

New Chick went out for coffee a little while ago. While she was gone, the Ferengi called me over to her desk. She wanted to show me a document that was published a few weeks ago. She was annoyed at both New Chick and me because it had formatting errors all over the place.

She told me that New Chick was being careless and that I shouldn't let her get away with it. She said I needed to spend more time with her, to make sure that she didn't let such things happen again. She went on and on about how the days I was off a few weeks ago, she made sure all the documents looked perfect before sending them out. She told me I needed to do the same from now on and that I needed to make sure that New Chick did too. Both of us need to follow her example on this, since clearly we are too careless. Blah blah blah.

I let her rant, and then I went back to my desk and sat down. A little while later I had to record a document I published today. Before putting the book away, I checked the entry for the document in question. It was one that the Ferengi did while I was at home puking a few weeks ago. Not I. Not New Chick. She.

She just told me that a document she published was completely unacceptable and I need to make sure never to allow it to happen again!

I didn't have time to make a proper lunch for today, so I brought a tin of soup. Mmm... No Chicken Noodle...

I work in an office. On our floor there are three kitchens. I searched all of them in my hunt for a can opener. Not a one. I did, however, find three corkscrews and four bottle-cap openers.

I think it makes a bit of a statement about my fellow employees, don't you?

Uh oh.

Ian, you've upset Anne. Bad Ian!

Anne, he was kidding. It was just a joke. Breathe. It will be all right. The universe is unfolding as it should.

Everybody else, as you were.

Update:
Oh. So apparently Ian wasn't joking after all, just ask Oxford.

It's taken me some time, but I've made a decision. As can be seen below, I said it. Well, no, that's not true. I wrote it. Well, technically I typed it, but let's not get all pedantic here.

It just had to be done. No other word or phrase fit the situation. It was the correct thing to say in the situation. There was no way around it. There just wasn't.

If you don't hear from me in the next little while, it's clearly because I've been struck dead by lightning.

Continuing on with the dishwasher saga...

I stopped at a little hardware store on my way home from work yesterday. Water spurting all over the place (probably) = busted o-ring. I bought a pack of o-rings and headed home. I popped the spigot off and sure enough, the o-ring had split.

Oh, but wait... The spigot probably shouldn't have that big crack there.

I drove to Rona, spigot in hand. I found an employee in the plumbing section and said 'I need another one of these, please, preferably without the crack'. He showed me the spigots, which ranged in price from $32 to $40. They only had a few and none of them matched mine. Of course, whole tap assemblies start at $25. Wouldn't it be so nice to have new, non-grotty taps in the kitchen, I thought.

I picked out a set and asked the guy how easy it would be to install. No problem, he says. All the instructions are here. It's really easy to do. The only problem I might encounter, he said, was in getting the old set off. The new ones are designed to just pop into place. The older models were glued down. So, it may be difficult to get the old one to come off. Cool.

I buy the set and drive home. I unscrew the taps and pull them off. The base is now detatched, so I try to pull it off. No go. Fine, I thought, it must be glued. Ford and I spent the next few minutes trying to pry the stupid thing off. Eventually, we got it.

Our stupid, antique taps were installed by insane plumbers from outer space.

What I found underneath the taps in no way resembles what it's supposed to. I have no idea what to do next. Now I'm faced with a dilemma: do I call my landlady or do I call a plumber?

If I call my landlady (who conveniently forgets how to speak English when anything needs to be fixed), she will send her son to fix it. He's not a plumber. He probably knows less about plumbing than I do. What he's good at it improvising cheap, half-assed solutions that sort of work. He'll probably duct tape my taps back together. Additionally, my landlady may declare that I cracked the spigot by taking it off, thus beginning a long drawn-out and pointless war.

If I call a plumber, I'll have to pay for the work myself. But it'll be done.

I've said it before. I'll say it again. Grr. Argh.

My apologies to the rest of you...

We had to issue a statement today stating that we inadvertently published incorrect information yesterday.

Meat Guy: Should it be 'erratum' or 'errata'?
Sarcastrix: Well, it's only one, so it should be 'erratum'.
Meat Guy: Are you sure? I thought the 'a' was singular and the 'um' made it plural.
Sarcastrix: I have a friend who will laugh at you for ten straight minutes for that statement.
Meat: Oh.

Those of you who know Anne are now nodding your heads. Those of you who don't, well... Just trust me, (as usual) she's cursing me for making her laugh out loud in the library.

Um... I'm pretty sure I had my brain with me when I got here this morning. At least I think I did. Did I forget to bring it? Did I lose it as I walked here? Is it on my desk somewhere?

Have you seen it?

I'll admit I wasn't really looking forward to the aforementioned party (hee hee), but in the end it turned out much better than I had expected.

Every party needs one character who defies logic, rationale, explanation, and who makes for entertaining stories after the fact. (Someday I'll tell you about Vampire Guy, from a party long, long ago.) Filling that role at this party was Chris (as in Griffin), formerly known as 'As Yet Unrechristened Male Housemate'. Chris wandered from room to room, interrupting conversations with things that made no sense and attempting to divert all attention to himself.

He found Anne and Ford engaged in a private conversation in the living room. He sat down in front of her and, without waiting for a pause in the conversation, said

Hey, you're a fourth-year Classical Archaeology student. Have you ever heard of the Trojan War? What happened was there was this big...

Um... Right. Later on in the evening things were pretty chilled out. Somebody was playing the guitar and singing. People were talking. Chris walked into the room and annouced that it was time for some hip hop. Nobody paid him any mind. He made his announcement again. Still nobody responded. He walked over to the stereo (which was less than a metre away from the dude with the guitar), inserted his CD, hit play and cranked the volume.

Gina and Shane were the driving forces behind the party. It was their idea and they had the most guests. They spent most of the party in her bedroom. They would appear every half hour or so, put on a little show for everybody (no, I didn't want to see your bra!) and then disappear back upstairs again.

I think their philosophy on life is that people should be having as much sex as possible, with as many people as possible. Sometimes you gotta go to work. Sometimes you have errands that need to be run. Sometimes you have to converse with people that either won't sleep with you or that you have no intention of sleeping with (you know, like your parents). Aside from that, every available moment should be spent having sex. They're like bunnies. Or hormone-driven, inhibitionally challenged teenagers.

Cute but Kinda Evil had an asthma attack in the middle of the party. When it got to the point where it was unbearable, she came to find me. I had no idea where her puffer was, but I knew where mine was: the main floor washroom. I ran to get it, only to find the washroom in use. Scuse me. Pardon me. Comin' through...

I spent a bit of time talking to Northern Irish Mutterer. He's very insightful and interesting and has a keen way with interpretting people's body language. Mostly though, he prefers to spend his time talking about how drunk he can get and that time he ended up in hospital after drinking way too much.

The Stinky Monkey made a new friend. One of Shane's work-friends came by. He seemed nice, but he was one of those socially inept types who won't talk to anybody for fear that they don't want to talk to him. Several of us tried to engage him in conversation only to be met with fear and grunted, single-syllable answers. The Stinky Monkey, on the other hand, liked him. Really liked him. He spent most of the evening sitting on Shy Guy's lap, licking his own crotch. (No, he wasn't licking Shy Guy's crotch. We'd be having a whole different conversation if that were the case.) Anybody know the term lipstick? Eew.

Repeatedly. Eew.

I spent four hours talking to Ford, during which I gave him the same piece of advice 8,347 times. I'm not sure, but I was starting to feel like a bit of a parrot, repeating the same phrase over and over again. But shh... It's a secret, so I can't tell you what the conversation was about.

All in all, not a bad little party.

My alarm clock is really annoying. And not just because it goes off so frickin' early. Its incessant, repeated noise isn't a 'meep'. It's not really a 'bleep', not quite a 'mrrr'. I don't know how to describe it, except to say that if you imagine the most horrible noise on earth, it sounds a lot like that.

Recently, though, I've discovered other, even more annoying ways to be woken up.

On Friday my alarm clock didn't go off. I would probably have slept in really late if it weren't for the sound of the Stinky Monkey obsessively licking his crotch. I woke up screaming 'Stop it! Don't do that! I hate that noise!', and then looked at the clock. Crap. I got up 10 minutes late.

On Friday night we had a party. I was up until four thirty. I was the last one to go to bed. However, I also got the extreme pleasure of being the first one up on Saturday morning. Why? Funny you should ask. I was lying in bed, dozing in and out of sleep, aware of a conversation between Shane and the newly rechristened Gina (formerly known as 'As Yet Unrechristened Female Housemate'). Eventually, they stopped talking. Oh good, I thought, now I can go back to sleep.

What? What am I hearing? No. No, I'm not hearing that. [press one ear into pillow; pull duvet up over other ear] No way. [press hands to ears and sing la la la la la] Crap. I got up at nine.

I'm sure there are more annoying ways to get up, but I'd prefer to save them for another week.

Things have been good. I woke up on time this morning. I walked to work. It was warm enough out that I had to take my mittens off. I drank my tea as I walked. I got to work feeling that life was good and people really weren't that bad.

What a travesty! A good mood. What am I supposed to do with a good mood? I can't be funny when I'm in a good mood. But how can I let you, my imaginary blog readers, down?

If you come here for the funny, but instead you find some underweight chick babbling on about how the sky is blue and her job's not really that bad and her co-workers are behaving sensibly... Well... I can't see that impressing a great many people.

One by one, my fictitious friends, you would stop coming by. Without anybody to keep me company in my imaginary world, I'd be tempted to stray back into the real world. Imagine that! No, don't. It's best if we just don't go there. Ever. My hands are starting to shake a little bit just thinking about it.

You're in luck, though. Just when I thought the accursed good mood was never going to go away, the Ferengi opened her mouth.

We've been getting along lately. The truth is she's actually a nice person. Don't get me wrong, she's still just as infuriating to work with as ever. But as she gets used to me, I cease to be new and different. I'm still different from everybody else, but if I'm the same me then she can get used to me. The way she sees it, new is bad, whereas the same is ideal. I'm not new anymore. Also, I'm too used to her freakishness, so I just work around it. I've stopped noticing the fact that I do things in the most absurd way possible just to keep her happy.

She yelled at me this morning. Just for old time's sake, I think. I don't know. It didn't really make any sense. I just rolled my eyes and went out for coffee, leaving her here muttering discontentedly at my wake.

Now, it's very, very silent around here. She has decided not to speak to me.

Well, it's as quiet as it can be with people shouting and high heels clicking and news reports blaring and antique dot matrix printers screeching and other people shouting and phones ringing and what not...

I bought some new toys! It was exciting. I got a dishwasher and a washing machine. Oh, and some pants, but whatever...

The washing machine works great! I took some clothes out of it and — lo and behold — they smelled all pretty and, like, not mouldy. It's so awesome. I ran all around the house telling people. Mostly they just looked at me funny. Especially the dogs, they seemed to think I was crazy or something.

Sadly, the dishwasher was formerly owned by some dude named Murphy. I got it into the kitchen and promptly discovered the tap wasn't the same size as the connector thingy.

Off to Home Depot we went. Of course, I somehow spent $70 on I don't even remember what, including two tap adapters. Neither worked.

Today I went to another hardware store and bought two more adapters, in the hopes that one of them would fit. Surprisingly, the first one I tried fit perfectly. Sweet!

I turned the tap on. Water fountained out of the base of the taps and sprayed all over the kitchen.

Grr. Argh.


PS: I'm listening to Bon Jovi!

Please, please, please do not pee on the seat. Thank you.
___________________________

One time (not at band camp) a friend of mine brought a friend of hers to my house. Apparently, my friend's friend decided that my washroom wasn't up to her cleanliness standards. She seems to have tried the hover technique. I say tried because she wasn't entirely successful.

Look, I might leave clutter lying around, but that doesn't mean it's okay for you to pee on my seat!
___________________________

You know how most women get mad at men for leaving the toilet seat up? Right. I'm the opposite. I consider it a little statement. It's like saying 'I don't want you to accidentally sit in my urine, so I took the time to make sure that won't happen'. It says 'I care about you'.

I worry a lot about my job performace. Okay maybe not a lot, because I don't really care that much, but I guess I worry a bit. No. I mean, I worry a lot. Just not about work. Not exclusively about work. Not usually about work.

Whatever. You get the idea.

The Ferengi frequently tells me that I've screwed this or that or the other up. She tells me that the boss is annoyed at my constant failures. She gripes at me being lazy. Blah blah blah.

Yesterday I received what amounts to my semi-annual performance appraisal. Last time around, this meant that my boss made vague, clouded reference to my performance or something. Then he gave me a big, fat cheque.

This time was a bit different. He told me that I shouldn't be such a perfectionist. He said he knew that I was and that I would continue to be. But, he said, I should try to be less of a perfectionist or I'd burn myself out.

Considering the amount of time I spend in a given workday not working, I find that fairly unlikely.

Oh, and then he gave me a big, fat cheque and a silly little raise.

It's bonus day. We're all waiting to find out the value that the boss places on our contributions to the company. I keep reminding myself that I make a good salary and anything I get is a bonus (hence the name, eh). Still. Kinda nerve-wracking.

Last time around I got what I thought was a freakin' amazing bonus, even though I was told that we as a department and as a company had not performed to expectations. This time around, we've had e-mail upon e-mail telling us how great the department is doing and how fabulously the company is performing. If I get less than I got last time, won't that mean I'm not worth...

[pressing temples frantically]

Must stop thinking about it. Must stop thinking about it. Must stop...

Aaargh!

Update:
Aaargh! I should have been off five minutes ago, but he hasn't called me into his office yet. Now he's pissed off because he had to clean the kitchen. I was about to do it, but didn't want to miss his phone call to go see him in his office. Maybe he won't call. Maybe I'm not worthy of a bonus at all! Aaaargh!

He called the Ferengi to his office an hour and a half ago. She came out with the biggest freakin' grin I've ever seen on her. But he still hasn't called me!!!!!!

Aaaargh!

Update to the update:
Wee haw! I'm going to get me a brand new... um... I don't know... But I'm going to buy stuff. Maybe lots of it.

I had to go downstairs to the bank just now. I stood waiting, and waiting, and waiting — as one usually does at a bank. Eventually I was the next person to be served.

I looked around, and almost burst into hysterical laughter. There were about eight people waiting. We were very neatly arranged in decending order of height. The man at the back of the queue was about eye-level with my navel.

I looked around again, because surely there must be a small dog somewhere who would like to be served next after him.

I've been thinkin'. And I don't like what I've been thinking.

I walked to work this morning for the first time in a while. I like walking to work; it gives me time to think. As I walked this morning, I thought about insurance.

Insurance companies make dramatic commercials, portraying themselves as good neighbours. They show images of insurance brokers, agents and call centre reps being helpful and kind; showing people a better way; making sense of a mad, mad world; helping people protect their futures.

Sh... Don't tell anybody, but I'm starting to think there might be more to it than that.

We have health benefits at work. Fairly decent ones, at that... Well, they ought to be; we pay enough for them. When you start with the company, you're required to choose between the Silver plan and the Gold plan. Silver gives you so-so coverage on most things, whereas Gold offers somewhat-better coverage on almost everything.

My asthma medication costs about $100 every two months. The Silver plan would cover 80% of it; the Gold plan covers 100%. I prefer Tradional Chinese Medicine to White People Medicine* whenever possible. The Silver plan covers paramedical services (acupuncture, chiropractic, massage...) 100% up to a maximum of $300 per year per service. With the Gold plan, I get 100% coverage up to $500. So, I opted for the Gold plan. I pay about $100 per month for this coverage. My employer pays the rest. Assuming that my employer pays 50% of the costs, that means I'm really paying $2,400 per year for this service. Am I getting $2,400 out of it? Not even close.

At the beginning of this year, our HR manager sent out a company-wide e-mail about our health insurance. He stated that because we had been making so much use of our benefits, the provider was raising the rates. Being the sort of loving, caring individual that HR managers always are, he proclaimed that the company would swallow this loss on our behalf. Even though the rates were going up, we would not pay anything beyond what we were already paying.

He then included a list, provided by the insurance company, of ways to help keep our claims to a minimum, thereby helping to keep our cost of coverage from going up again. It contained such helpful information as:

Ask your pharmacist to provide you with generic drugs whenever possible.

{The Silver plan stipulates that it will cover only generic drugs.}

Not all paramedical service providers charge the same fees. Don't choose the first masseuse you find, shop around to find the one with the best prices.

{I'm paying for $500 of coverage, you can bet your arsenal I'm going to use as much of it as I possibly can.}

Consider making claims against your spouse's benefit coverage, rather than your own.

{First off, that's dumb. Wouldn't his insurance provider make the same helpful recommendation? Secondly, hello! You assume somebody would marry me! Are you insane? Have you met me? Oh, no, you haven't. Never mind. Still... Dumb.}

Yesterday I found an envelope from our insurance provider in my mailbox when I got home. Oh, goody! A cheque! I tore it open with zest. Well, no... Actually I used my fingers, but whatever. It was a statement.

[rewinding noises]

I placed a claim a few months ago for reimbursement for an acupuncture treatment. Instead of getting a cheque in the post, I got a Request for More Information. Even though I'd processed claims for services provided by the same person before, this time they decided it wasn't good enough. They wanted proof of her credentials, proof of her right to practise acupuncture in the province of Ontario. Thing is, Ontario doesn't regulate acupuncture. She doesn't even need any accreditation or licence. She has them, though, so I send the forms in again. I wait for my cheque.

[forward to yesterday afternoon]

The statement says: We are sorry to advise you that claims may be made a maximum of six months after the date of service. This claim is no longer valid. Denied.

Gee, maybe if they'd've paid me when I originally filed it, this wouldn't have happened.

I can't help but wonder if maybe they don't really care about me as much as they say they do.

*Come on people, this surprises you? I am the local tree-hugging hippy freak!

This one deserves a drum roll, but I don't know how to write one. Oh, wait...

[drum roll, possibly digressing into a Danny Carey drum solo]

Darmok apologised.

I have known her for five and a half years. She's never apologised to me. Never*. Not even the time she told everybody we both knew that the police had hard evidence that I'd stolen $5,000 two years before and she didn't know why they hadn't arrested me.

Last night she apologised for being a bad friend. She hasn't spoken to me very much for the past month. Honestly, I've been rather happy with it. I've been trying to distance myself from her for a year and a half (since the aforementioned** incident). She keeps coming back.

Aaargh!

*She also didn't apologise for accusing me of sending her hate mail.

**Long story, but Darmok actually thought aforementioned meant bisexual. I laugh every time I use the word.

Did you ever wake up with a line from a song swirling round and round in your head? It dances and prances like an idiot, until nothing else except the song can exist in your brain. It's never the whole song, either. Always just one line. No matter how hard you try to remember the rest of the song, you just can't. Right. I'm having that now.

He bravely ran away, away.
Oh, brave Sir Robin.

The Ferengi is under the impression that I'm dicking around instead of doing my work. Bite me! And, yes jj... If she had any balls, I would kick them. Maybe I'll get her a set just so I can.

I got an e-mail from Hot Guy this morning. He's acting as a tour guide to a bunch of rich Germans in Bermuda at the moment. The e-mail he sent me pissed me off, though, because it's funnier than anything I've ever written. It might even be funnier than Buster, who's tough to top sometimes. I'd post it for you, but I'm too jealous. Besides... It's dirty... And I'm just not that sort of girl.

Oh, and speaking of things being funny... Apparently [dramatic pause] drinking a big glass of apple juice that's past its prime right before going to bed, makes for a cranky tummy all night and the following day. I recommend against it.

It's not that I really wanted to remember the entire song, mind you.

There is a strange sort of hierarchical structure where I work.

My boss is the director of the department. There are about 15 analysts. They're the ones who (in theory, at least) write the documents that I edit. The analysts all have assistants. Each of the assistants hopes to someday become an analyst. It's a stepping stone position. They consider themselves to be 'doing their time'. They do all the dirty work, all the real work, while the analysts do all the schmoozy stuff.

Additionally, my boss has an assistant: Bridget Jones. She's not the same kind of assistant as the rest, though. She's the kind that used to be called secretary until that word became politically incorrect. The Ferengi and New Chick do document layouts and post stuff to the web. I do a bit of that, but mostly I edit.

For reasons that are clearly more political than practical, Bridget, the Ferengi, New Chick and I are considered support staff. The rest of the department (the boss, the analysts and the assistants) are considered real staff.

There's a distinct difference between the support staff and the real staff: the support staff are women. There is one female analyst and one female assistant, the rest are all male.

Does this bug me? Not especially, but it does make me a bit curious. Do women not want that job? I know I don't, but that's because I value life over money. That's part of what makes me the local hippy freak. Occasionally I find myself wondering why there aren't at least a few more women in the office, but whatever... It's not exactly keeping me awake at night.

But now, though, something about this situation is bugging me.

The lone female analyst is crazy. She's great at her job and she's completely married to her career, but she's a freak. With a capital freak... If I can ever think of a name that encompasses her personality, I'll tell you about her.

She's not the source of my buggedness, though. The female assistant is. I'll call her Luanne. It just came to me this very moment, but it fits. She's really, really nice. She tries really hard. But she's an idiot. I'm sorry; she just is. She screws up constantly. She can never just send me a document for editing. She sends me a document for editing, then sends it again three more times over the course of an hour, with apologies each time.

Sorry, I made a mistake in the last file. Please disregard it and use this one.

She sends files to the wrong people. She sends files at the wrong time. She sends files with the wrong names. She has had the process explained to her repeatedly, yet she continues to get things wrong.

I have to spend a large portion of my time correcting her mistakes. This is not what bugs me. Being the person who fixes other people's mistakes makes me look good. And I like doing things that make me look good.

No, what bugs me is this: as the lone female representative in the tight-knit boys' club that is the world of assistants, she has a responsibility to do at least a half-way decent job. If one of the 15 or so male assistants is an idiot, the he is useless. If she sucks at her job, then maybe it's because women weren't cut out for that sort of work.

And that's what's pissing me off today.

I could do her job. I could do it well, even. I don't want to, but I could. You know?

I like New Chick. She's nice. She's friendly. We work well as a team. But there's a problem. I don't quite know how to broach it.

Her feet stink.

She comes in at noon. The first thing she does is change from her runners to her dress shoes. It takes hours for the offensive odour to dissipate.

I still feel puky. I think it was the Chinese food last night, but this sure as hell ain't helpin'.

I feel puky. Ick.

Talk amongst yourselves for a bit until I feel funnier more like being funny.

Oh, and head on over to the newly revamped i am sic for news about the India trip you decided I should take.