Friday, July 27, 2018

Maven's Workplace Commandments

In no particular order:

1. Be nice to everyone, until or unless they prove they don't deserve it;

2. Always appear to be busy (make your work expand to the allotted time allowed for the task);

3. Have a sense of humor about things (especially the mundane and absurd!);

4. Don't poke the crazy (but if you must, do so with an audience);

5. Never volunteer! (Mo' projects = mo' headaches);

6. Never forget with whom you are dealing (every workplace has its share of ass kissers, backstabbers, slackers and gossips--never forget that, and don't expect them to act any differently when your back is turned!);

7. Smile (it will keep the assholes guessing what you're up to);

8. Always keep a stash of headache medication, chocolate, Glade, bandaids and crazy glue at your desk (yes, you WILL need this!);

9. Never slack off more than the most obvious slacker in the office;

10. When things get rough, shift it into neutral (and if that doesn't work, use chocolate, booze or Rx happy pills just to deal with it).

Warm weather provision:

There should be a tacit "3 p.m. White Russian" coffee run for a few select co-workers, whereby we "indulge" a bit, and take the edge off during the 3 p.m. slump. Good times.

An Oldie But a Goodie: Limberger Incident

Picture this: 1998

I’m living with my cousin (a nun), following my leaving my WASband. This was a temporary (one year) arrangement as “transitional housing” until my divorce was finalized.

And as I’ve alluded in other threads, the whole notion of “Cleanliness is next to Godliness” did not apply to my cousin, whether it be her house, her cats, her car, or more specifically for this thread, HER BODY.

After a few weeks, she and I had gotten ourselves into a system, a habit. I’d come home from work and immediately take a nap (from 6 p.m. til about 10 p.m., when she’d go to bed). I set my alarm and would get up when she was already ensconced in bed.
I got up, splashed some water on my face, dabbed off the excess with her cute little fingertip towel she kept by the sink, and then scampered off and wandered to the den, and popped online.

Suddenly, I became aware of an aroma of the most-foul nature. Sour, tangy, cheesy. Definitely fermented...NEIGH... definitely EVIL...

I sniffed my pits, and whafted air up from my crotchal region, taking a stink assessment, both of which came up with negative results.

I got up, and as much as it pains me to recall this, I sniffed the upholstery of the chair, thinking perhaps I was sitting in her filth. No dice.

So I retraced my steps from whence I woke up. I found myself back in the bathroom. At this point, I am very afraid and reluctant to pick up the fingertip towel (which for all intents and purposes APPEARED CLEAN).

Reluctantly… hesitatingly… dry-heaving-ly, I put the towel up within sniffing range… and FUCK-ME-RUNNING-WITH-A-RED-HOT-POGO-STICK-THERE-IT-WAS!~

I can only deduce that my cousin used this cloth to either dry her vajoosh or perhaps take a swipe at the yeasty underfolds of her belly, which were forever in a state of candidiasis.
I have nothing else. Nor do I think this story requires much else, other than to share that OH-YES-THERE-WAS-MUCH-PROJECTILE-VOMITING.

Saturday, July 14, 2018

A Cigar Is a Cigar Is a Cigar

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” I don’t remember who to attribute: Freud, Archie Bunker, or Bill Clinton.