Once again it’s been a banner week to be me. Monday we found out our boss’s father had passed away and for some bizarre reason my coworkers trusted me to order something for the funeral. Everyone knows I am not the most competent or practical person in the universe so giving me this kind of crap to do is always a bad idea. Thankfully the coworker I share an office with lent a guiding hand and instead of ordering $70 worth of fried chicken and a sympathy clown we decided on Panera bagels and pastries. I got it ordered all fine and dandy and was feeling really proud of myself until the end of the conversation when the sales person said, “thank you for your order and we’re so sorry for the loss” and me being me, I’d already checked out of the conversation mentally and instead of saying something appropriately solemn and polite like maybe, “Thank you” I had to say in my most chipper voice, “oh no problem, thanks a bunch!”. WTF? I’d just spent 10 minutes discussing with this woman what would be the most appropriate thing to send to a wake (apparently flip flop sugar cookies are not as acceptable as plain short bread cookies, who knew?) and then blew off her sympathy like Marsha Brady ordering penis cookies for a bachelorette party.
Then last night I took Donald for a walk as we are both starting to look like overstuffed sausages. I was too lazy to look very hard for walking clothes and there was a pair of Dave’s old sweat pants on top of my laundry pile so that’s what I grabbed. He’s nearly 6 feet tall and I’m barely 5 so needless to say his pants are a wee bit baggy on me which is fine while I’m putzing around but once I put my keys and phone in the pockets they started to drag just a bit. Of course Donald had to poop at the beginning of the walk and he poops something that looks like the giant mound of dinosaur droppings in Jurassic Park so I couldn’t just kick it under some bushes like I do with the smaller dogs and had to pick it up and drag it around with us for the rest of the walk. Then Donald caught the scent of something and used his 100 pounds as leverage to drag me along behind him, one hand desperately clinging to his leash and the other trying to keep my pants up while slinging around a bag of warm dog poo. Pretty sure I’m gonna end up on YouTube for that performance.
Cripes it hurts to be me sometimes.
Tag: tea
I Really Miss Hot Colonel
Super long, super gross story here. My sinuses turned septic (<self-diagnosis) earlier this week and I ended up taking two days off. Back today but thinking perhaps I should have stayed home as every little thing seems like a huge ordeal. First I had some weird existential crisis over my breakfast sandwich. Took a bite that was too hot, while simultaneously realizing I had forgotten to put salsa on it and also a bit of egg fell off. I had to sit still for a second and fight tears because I couldn’t think of which issue to deal with first. I did eventually take a drink to deal with my burning mouth but had to wrap the sandwich up, turn away from it and pull myself together for a few minutes just to finish a god damn egg sandwich. Also, it took me an hour process that whole sentence into words.
Then had some sort of aneurism trying to talk to hot Colonel. I brought tea and tea cookies in for National Tea Day and put up a sign that said so. Hot Colonel came by and says, “Beth, is it National Tea Day?” Christ, has he not met me?? That is so not a question to ask a jack ass. BUT, it was also HOT flipping Colonel who by the way is also my boss’s boss’s boss. Never mind being adorable AF. So my poor festering head was trying cope with A) Hot colonel talking to me and saying my name in his oh so amazing way. B) Hot Colonel asking me a Captain Obvious question that normally I would have snarked all to hell and C) trying to respond in a coherent manner to basically the head of my chain of command. You can probably guess how well that went. I just stared at him, drooling like a pot head staring at a fresh bag of Doritos after finishing a solo fatty. I may have scratched my pit. I did finally manage to say, “Yes……sir.” And then he thankfully he took a hand full of cookies left. Pretty sure he thinks I’m high.
Also, there’s a funny taste in the back of my mouth that kind of suggests my sinuses may be bleeding. Seriously, I think need to go home.
A Long Winded Request for You People to Cover for Me in Court.
My favorite magazine is “Victoria” (yes, I still order paper magazines because OMG how can you not touch and smell things you read for fuck’s sake you barbarians??) which is just as pretentious as it sounds but is full of lovely little old lady fripperies like doily patterns and china advertisements and recipes that include more than three ingredients (none of which come in a box with a packet of “cheese food” so I’ll never make them but still the pictures are glorious!); and instructions for setting your table for an odd number of people and so many more old fashioned stuff and sundries that make my dork heart happy even though I’m far too lazy to ever invite people over to my ghetto hovel anymore. Much less give a rat’s ass where they sit or if they even have a napkin let alone a perfectly folded origami swan linen one with hand stitched edging. (Use your sleeve and then let the dogs gnaw it clean like a real person you finicky fucking princess. Although if I really like you I might break out a ten year old wet wipe from the bottom of my purse. Antibacterial and everything because you totally matter to me and shit. ) It does however strike me as a wee bit bizarre that I have the heart of a sweet little old lady but the sense of humor of a deeply disturbed 12 year old boy (I mean really, who doesn’t enjoy a good holocaust/blonde joke about yo mama now and then) ((No, no I don’t, this is wrong. Please don’t take that seriously, I’m promise I’m just kidding inappropriately)) and the vocabulary of a functionally illiterate prostitute from Jersey. I’m pretty sure with this unique combination of personality traits I’m going to need at least one of you to vouch for me in court before too long. Or walk me on a leash. It’s a toss up.
Pups and Panera Pushers
After my morning walk I always go through Panera for a tea and cookie as a reward because I’m a giant, slobbering toddler that needs bribery and doesn’t understand the irony of processed sugar after walking my ass off. So I drive thru and get my usual but when I get to the window the ladies that work there are arguing. Someone pushed the Lemonade button on my order but I never get lemonade and they were confused. It was a little disturbing to know they know my order by heart and feel strongly enough to argue about it. Like it’s a certainty they can always count on, the sky is blue, the sun comes up in the east and the clown car lady with the dogs always gets tea. The only other person in the world that knows my order by heart is my brother, so I’m spending as much time with the Panera crew as I do my own family. That’s terrifying and completely pops my delusion that I’m even mildly a responsible adult with my shit together. They finally realize they can just ASK me as I’m sitting there blankly staring at them with Zeus dripping drool on my shoulder, also staring at them. Things got mildly better when they decided to just give me my order for free since they made me sit there while they figured it out and also because, “You come here all the time.” Fuck me, I’m an addict. I thanked my dealers for the free hit profusely because even though I’m an awkward disappointment of grown up I can at least pull off gratitude like a normal person. As I pulled away I heard one of them say, “She’s so sweet!” and that made everything ok, obviously they don’t know me at all.
Diary of a Dog Hoarding Spinster 