Monday, February 28, 2005

Rubbing it in

Nutjob's off on her booty-call to the Florida Keys, she left on Thursday night. Today in my mail pile there was an oh-so-witty postcard, half of which had a picture of a guy shovelling copious amounts of snow with the label "You: 10*" in the corner, and the other half bearing a shot of a beautiful tropical beach and the label "Me: 80*". How thoughtful. She wrote:

"Well, got here ok. Enjoy the snow! Will send some sunshine breezes your way!"

It was postmarked Miami. Now, I know the Keys aren't very big, city-wise, but surely they have their own post offices. This means she must have sent the damn thing from the airport the moment she landed. Freak. Just for that I think we should save some snowballs in the freezer for her and pelt her when she gets back.

Scratch that- as alluring as that sounds, I want to play no part in her attention game. When she comes back I'll pretend I didn't even realize she was gone. (That's pretty unrealistic though, considering how much I am enjoying her absence).

Sunday, February 27, 2005

Germs Suck

Well, boys and girls, I got hit with the flu stick. Tuesday afternoon the chills and aches came on, and by the time I got home I went straight to bed and stayed there for three days. So, tomorrow should be fun, getting all caught up on what I missed (work and gossip) in the midst of all the ninnies running around wringing their hands about the snow. I'm still not feeling that great, maybe I can feign exhaustion and leave early.

One thing I found interesting though... late Tuesday afternoon, I was on the phone with my boss, who has the uncanny ability to tell by my voice if something isn't quite right. So when she asked, I told her I was feeling pretty awful. She reminded me that I have plenty of sick days and chided me for never taking them. I also mentioned to Silent Husband when he called that I was feeling quite ill. Hmmm. Interesting, when I called my boss on Wednesday morning to inform her that I was in fact going to be taking a sick day, she said Jane had called out too. I checked my voice mail remotely to see if anyone else had called out, and there was Jane's message. She sounded perfectly fine. I don't know what she thought she gained by calling out on the same day as me, but I've given up trying to figure her out. Just let her sit there and stew in her cube while everyone comes by and comments on how long I was gone and how I must have been so sick and how they missed me. (Yes, they say they missed me even after one day- I think they get nervous because they know I pay them).

Oh, and my prediction for the snow? We close by 2pm.

Friday, February 18, 2005

A small victory (or is it?)

I completely forgot to mention this- I must be getting lax in my reporting. Remember the birthday lunches that I wanted to ban? (See 12/14/04 post entitled "Happy F-ing Birthday") I got my wish. I mentioned it to my boss, who was inclined to agree anyway, and during an administrative meeting, she brought it up and we discussed what to do instead. The decision was made to order pizza for whoever's birthday it is that month, similar to what we do with the ice cream cake, only just for staff, not for the entire office. Recall that I originally thought we should take each other out on our own time if we really wanted to do something for that person- now it has evolved into the office paying for a pizza party, on company time. Not that I care about wasting company time, I do quite a lot of that, but the principle remains the same- someone is inevitably going to have a problem with some part of this plan.

I believe we don't have a staff birthday until April or May, so I won't be able to report on the result of this experiment until then. Just know this. Nutjob's birthday is a day after mine. Guess what topping I'll be stuck with on my "birthday" pizza: pineapple. Yay.

Please lick your fingers before using the copier

Yesterday, Musketeer #1 brought in slightly more than half of an incredibly rich-looking gooey chocolate cake. Now, you all know my penchant for sweets, but oddly enough this does not extend to chocolate cake. Maybe it's just too much chocolate all at once, but I generally don't like it, so I passed on a piece.

While I was in the kitchen heating up my frozen-dinner-lunch, Nutjob came rushing in, interuppting (as usual) the Musketeers' conversation.

Nutjob (bouncing): I'm so happy, I'm so happy, I'm so happy!

The Musketeers tried to ignore her.

Nutjob: I'm so happy, I'm so happy, I'm so happy!

Musketeer #3: Ok, why?

Nutob: Simon is getting out of the hospital today!

Musketeer #3: Um... who is Simon?

Nutjob: The guy I met when I was in Florida!!! [she finally notices the cake] OOOOH, cake!!!

And out of the kitchen she ran.

Musketeer #2: What the hell was that about?

Musketeer #3: I don't know.

Musketeer #2: She has to be on drugs. No one can be that morose one minute and that happy the next.

Nutjob came rushing back into the kitchen and grabbed a sandwich (from the platter left over from a meeting) and a piece of cake, explaining "I can eat now!". (Not that that's much of an explanation. But in her mind, it obviously is).

Several minutes later, I went to the copy room to make some photocopies and discovered a large smear of chocolate frosting on the "start" button of the copier. Smaller smears were also on the number keys, the touch screen and under the handle of the document handler. Is there anyone on earth more vile than this woman?

Killing 'em with kindness

A few days ago, we had our monthly gathering in the kitchen for ice cream cake in celebration of office birthdays. This is always an amusing exercise, if only for the fact that you get to listen to the women complain about the calories/carbs/fat they're ingesting, as they happily clean their plates. This time, I also got to witness Jane with her claws out. Sugar-coated claws, but claws nonetheless.

There was a decent sized group of us all gathered in the kitchen, and my boss and some others started talking about a former director, who was famous for hiring only very young very thin model types. He's become somewhat of a legend in the office, and even the people who have been hired several years after he was unceremoniously fired know this about him. Including Jane. Jane, Nutjob and the Mosquito were sitting at the other end of the table, and as soon as Jane heard this man's name, she apparently saw her opportunity.

Jane: We'd never have gotten hired by Schmuck. His maximum age was 25.

She then turned to Nutjob, and still in her syruppy voice said

Jane: Nutjob, you and I would definitely not have been hired.

This caused Nutjob to look down at her half-eaten cake somewhat dejectedly. I actually felt sorry for her. Jane wasn't stopping there, though.

Jane: Come to think of it, you were here before me. How did you get get hired?

Nutjob: I was hired by Frank. [Schmuck's predecessor]

Jane: Oh! Well that explains it then.

I think my jaw may have dropped open. Nutjob was silent. Now, I know there have been many times when I have wished bad things on her, but this was just downright mean. I mean, at least when I wish death on Nutjob, she's actively annoying me at the time.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Another open letter

Dear NHL and NHLPA:

May you all rot in hell, you greedy pompous sons of bitches. Thank you for making hockey the laughing stock of the sports world, and thank you for giving us nothing more to look forward to than another twelve months of this stupidity and frustration. There doesn't even deserve to be an NHL.

-SilentWitness

Monday, February 14, 2005

Please pee in silence

An open letter to the women in my office building, on proper bathroom-using etiquette:


Rule 1: Please refrain from making loud grunting noises, sighing and muttering “oh, god!” while using the facilities.

Rule 2: The ladies’ room is not your personal therapist’s office. Talking animatedly on your cell phone about whoever has wronged you this time has nothing whatsoever to do with the purpose of the restroom. (Rule 1 can be waived if this is in response to Cell Phone Talker in an attempt to get her to leave). By the same token, if you must huddle together with a co-worker to gossip, please do it elsewhere.

Rule 3: The paper toilet seat covers are there so we don't have to sit where everyone else's asses have been. If you walk out of the stall and leave it on the seat after you've used it, it kind of defeats the purpose of having it in the first place.

And for one woman in particular: is it really necessary to flush the toilet 18 times and pull 428 pieces of toilet paper off the roll with great urgency while you’re in there? It makes me nervous. Cut it out.


Thank you, that is all.

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

I cannot tell a lie

I literally just had this conversation with Nutjob:

Nutjob: Do you have the guy?

My brain: What the hell are you taking about?

Nutjob: You know, the uhhh... the guy, the name?

My brain: Go back to your home planet, space creature.

Nutjob: Maintenance!!! The guy!

Me: Oh, Bob?

Nutjob: Yes, his phone number. The sink is clogged.

Hold me back. A complete, coherent sentence! Four words, but a coherent sentence nonetheless.

Prozac Nation?

Musketeer #3 approached me this morning and asked me if Nutjob was on any kind of medication. I told him I didn't know (and restrained myself from saying that she certainly needs to be), and warily asked why.

Musketeer #3: Did you hear that voice mail she left?

Uh oh. Nutjob does the general voicemails (which go to all voicemail boxes) about upcoming meetings. I hadn't heard the message yet, so of course, I picked up my phone and listened. It wasn't what she said- that was totally normal. It was how she said it. First of all, not a stammer or random unrelated word to be found, which in itself is very unusual, but the thing which prompted Musketeer #3 to inquire as to her possibly medicated state was her tone of voice. It was frighteningly, falsely cheerful. An image came to mind of her standing on her desk, gun in hand, brightly explaining why she had to kill us all.

After she was done with her shift at the front desk (we still aren't allowed to hire a receptionist), she came back to her desk. In that same scary tone of voice she addressed Musketeer #3.

Nutjob: Did you like my voicemail?!

Musketeer #3: It was very peppy.

Nutjob: That's my DJ voice!

This is an interesting development. Perhaps she's moonlighting as a DJ, doing bar mitzvah gigs. Welcome to adulthood, kid. Watch out for that DJ, she likes to date younger men.