Have I Introduced Her Yet? The Fartiste.

Seems a bit late in the game to introduce her, as I hope to be out of here by June, and if not, she'll be retiring in December. So the over/under, +/- is 6-12 months things are going to change here.

Anyway. Since 2014, our office relocated to a high rise, and to use trailer park parlance, I have gone from a cubicle akin to a double-wide down to a single. Further unpleasantness added, and despite my attempts to relocate my workstation elsewhere within the confines of the office suite, with exception of the flimsy fabric partition separating us, we are sitting approximately 18-24 inches apart.

We are seated so close to one another, I can hear her digest her food. I also can hear her mutter under her breath (but really loud enough so I can hear it) blurt out "JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!" when I am conversing with anyone else (it could be about something innocuous like a Thanksgiving menu). "JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

She sits in her cubicle (a double-wide, mind you) farting her ass off, saying "excuse me!" to no one in particular; however, when she walks past my cubicle, she farts with abandon--and get this--NO EXCUSE ME. 

I don't take issue with the farts; I do, however, take issue with the lack of courtesy given the lack of an "excuse me," when I know she is capable of saying it--she's just incapable or unwilling to say it as she strafes my perimeter with her noxious emanations.

For the first few years here in the new digs, I'd casually mention the farting to the younger secretary--who, I could tell by her facial expression, that she doubted what I said was the truth--until one day, off in the distance, she, too, heard the familiar clarion call of the Butt Trumpet. 

As evidenced by a previous blog post (a bit deeper into the posting history herein), I keep a can of Febreze at the ready on my desk for such occasions.

It has now gotten to the point where I could be starting my day hosing down the immediate surrounding area of my cubicle because of her willful flatulence. 

She fails to say "Excuse me" when she crop dusts my cubicle; however, if I sneeze, she's quick to dispense a "God bless you." Fuck her, and fuck those God bless yous. Her God bless yous remain unacknowledged on my end, and I hope my silence is received as precisely that: A silent FUCK YOU--much like her farts that go without an "excuse me" are a not-so-silent FUCK YOU.

There are other bits of hostility going on too, and in October, things hit my personal tipping point where she caused trouble for me to the extreme point where I didn't know if I'd get fired (or worse). 

I've known all along she's noxious--but now things have reached a toxic level. 

So in the meantime, I have gotten myself into CBT, I read The Art of War (as well as The 48 Laws of Power) daily, and I have The Fartiste on a very tight diet (wherein she gets precisely ONE sentence from me per day--less if I can manage it). And I am plotting my escape.  

Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I have a chapter of The Art of War to read.

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.

THE. SMELL. WENT. WHEREVER. I. LOOKED. IT. WAS. ALWAYS. THERE….
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.

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.

Absurdity Du Jour: Baby Shark

Baby Shark

Gratuitous Pug Post

What if you licked your dog?

A Snack For My Prefrontal Cortex

Success Talks by SUCCESS.