i'm so vain, i really DO think this song is about me

oh dear readers, from one nazi boot camp to another today. first, i had to spend an excruciating day with one of the bible thumping jamaicans, my russian mafia 'boss,' and a few others at an office that's far enough from manhattan to be inconvenient, with transportation that begs for strained conversation all the while. and don't start me on lunch. 'why you no eat calamari? you no to like calamari?' 'oh, calamari and i have some unfinished business.' [completely over her head.] 'da, but you eat the fish! you like the fish!' [asking or telling?] 'no, i don't eat the fish and i don't like the fish.' and on and on and on.

at the first pantheon this morning, the first groups hammered us about how my division isn't getting it when the truth is 1. the bible thumper is fucking up, and repeatedly at that because that's what she does, and 2. we had to go 'as a group to meet cross-functionally with our team member counterparts across the three affected divisional groups' so the thumper wouldn't bitch or feel singled out or something. whatever, she looked like the indolent piece of shit she is, and i got face time with a v. p. in a division to which i'd like to transfer. fair enough.

the second pantheon was with a woman who barely spoke english about how over-worked she is, and over-stressed, and taking it from a billion different departments and would we TO PLEASE do x, y, and z to make her incompetent ass work as little as possible in as short a time as possible. sure thing, sweets.

poor mancat took the brunt of it when he came over after laundry (you all know about the on-going jihad between me and the laundromats) and before nazi boot camp two: nysc's total body class. the wicked little queen who runs the class is ruthless. 'higher! higher! you can do it, higher! yes! that's high enough!' bitch. but i have to say, my ass looks great. looking like hell and exhausted and walking like a prostitute who had a lucrative night, i, of course, HAVE to run into my coworker who opened the franchise 'in her spare time' up the street from me. some days one just doesn't want to make conversation, but sometimes one is just trapped. trapped and sweaty and walking funny.

but i will say that in light of my blood-drive rant a few days back, there IS justice in the world. or at least a legal department who sees giving me a 10% coupon is cheaper and a hell of a lot easier than a lawsuit from a faggot with a brass set of balls... got this monday, and be sure to note the saccharine sweetness:

'Dear Thomas,
I have been away at a nurses’ conference from Friday, May 5th. and have just returned today. During that time I have had the opportunity to give more consideration to your kind offer. Traditionally we have used the discount as an encouragement for successful donation, but there are a number of ways that you could be of great assistance to us in this important effort, and the incentive would certainly apply. First we need individuals to act as floor captains to sign up potential donors. If you are interested, please contact [yet another useless chick at work] for an explanation of this process. Secondly, I usually spend the entire day at the drive, but if you have the opportunity between 1pm and 2pm to come up to the [vampire room] and give me time for a lunch break I would greatly appreciate it.
Finally, thank you for bringing this to my attention. It has been several years since we have been able to offer the discount as an incentive and I would of course like to encourage everyone to participate in what ever way they can.
Regards,'

i feel so fulfilled now relieving an elderly woman, whose only mission in life is to encourage the flu shot and periodic desk-stretching, for a lunch break.

i'm cozying up to a well deserved glass of burgundy. can i get an amen.

dear microwave,

this is where i say, 'it's not you, it's me.' but the truth is that it really is you.

in the morning, it's not cute when you take 2.22 minutes to warm up my 10 ounces of water. nor is it cute it takes 3.45 minutes to warm up my good morning pizza.

and at night, the way you take EXactly 2.46 minutes to either undercook or burn my popcorn, that's poetry. i never know which surprise i'm going to get. well, i kind of know when that acrimonious burnt smell comes wafting through, yeah, i'm cursing you, bitch. popcorn button my ass.

oh and don't start me on the 4.44 minutes to cook frozen spinach. there is no way in hell that it takes almost five minutes to do that, you lazy bastard. my mother's microwave can cook a turkey in ten minutes. almost five for spinach, come now.

take this as your warning: if you up and get all deathbed on me, i'm not going to repair, i'm getting a smaller one that will fit in my cabinet, not my bookshelf. the bookshelf thing isn't cute, dear. yes, it's a new york apartment and i'm glad i don't shower in the kitchen like one particular drag queen of note, but really, you're stinking up my books. and you're getting old. so get with it or pack your bags.

oh and yes, i know you readers picked up on this, but for years, i have been putting things in the microwave with patterned numbers: 2.10, 3.33, 1.23, etc. i learned it from my grandfather, the coolest cat, and, really, it makes as much sense as anything else. don't mock me, you have your idiosyncrasies, too, my dear... and i've already told you repeatedly that i'm not right in the head.