Wednesday, October 31, 2007

Brain In Trouble - Send Help

I'm exhausted. My brain is thinking this:

Goddamn allergies, why did I take a double dose of Benadryl this morning and not notice it was the nighttime version? I'm going to fall asleep at the Photocopier. My eyes feel like they spent an hour looking at Carrot Top.

Why is my office phone clock an hour slow? Why does it not obey daylight savings rules?

Why was there no egg and cheese croissants at the cafeteria this morning when the only reason I came in early was to procure these beasts? A pox on you all, cafeteria people.

I have a headache too. Where is my sympathy? I get no sympathy.

And it's Halloween. That means a parade. In the Village. And I live in the goddamn Village. And every year I can never get my ass home without walking ten blocks out of my way to circumnavigate Washington Square Bloody Park which is closed to the public on Halloween - even for the drug dealers! And I can only get onto my street with ID (or if I show that nice policeman with the big gun, my boobs).

And my back neighbours who are fucksticks will throw an outdoor party till 4am full of screeching, inebriated ghouls and it will result in homicide (by me, after the egg throwing fails to hit any target).

I want a pumpkin to carve.

I want to sleep.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Just In...Work Can Make You Sick

From the current issue of Forbes magazine:

If you're a member of corporate America, chances are you've got access to a state-of-the-art gym, a gourmet cafeteria and an array of wellness services, including health risk assessments, telephone and Web-based consultations, and weight-loss programs.

Why yes! And we have a heliport on the roof and a little immigrant man who earns minimum wage to fan our corporate farts out of the nearest window. And did I mention the swimming pool and jacuzzi with cocktail bar on the roof (you know, next to the heliport?)

Um...no, no and hell no, Mr. McFancypants.

Don't get me wrong, we have some "stuff" going on. For instance, we have yoga. You have to pay for it but it's there, on the premises should you need to meditate out your stress. We also have things like 'Weight Watchers' for those wanting to be tinier and healthy living seminars and then we have a little mini university where we can do various software classes, etc. for free.

I even did a defensive driving course a couple of years back which everyone I knew found hilarious. "Like you could be any more defensive!" they snorted. "You beat drivers' heads with a tire iron if they so much as look at you funny at the lights!"

Haters.

Anyway, I took the course which saves 10% on your car insurance for three whole years, without even involving a gecko or a caveman!

OK, so I live in Manhattan and don't have a car, big deal. But at least I know that tailgating will get you a lot more up close and personal with some dude's pick-up than nature ever intended, thank you defensive driving! And you wouldn't believe the various suspicious practices people like to get up to while driving that really, they shouldn't. Yes, I mean you.

But really what I'm saying is, my company aren't so much state-of-the-art cool as, trying really hard to go from very staid and vanilla to something more youthful and creative. I mean we have an on-site pub once a week how's that for a start? Besides face it, nothing brings out the "youthful" in a group of executives quite like free liquor.

But despite a noticeable shift toward promoting healthy workplaces, your job can still make you sick. From uncomfortable workspaces to poor air quality to depression-inducing stress, there are plenty of opportunities to come home feeling worse than when you left in the morning.

Damn straight, Einstein. Sonny, I wrote the book on the coming home feeling worse than when you left. And I usually feel pretty bad when I leave, due to the fact I've just been forced to get out of a warm comfortable bed to do expense reports. Going home feeling worse than when you arrived comes from working with giant, IQ deficient assholes all day, and while my current employer has mercifully freed me from those for the most part, my last job provided enough of them to see out the next millennium.

[Berman] says that everything from mold spores to office furniture that off-gases formaldehyde to changes in humidity can affect a worker's upper respiratory system.

Whoa! Hold up one goddamn minute here. Did you say formaldehyde? The stuff they embalm dead people with? OK I know it's used for a lot of other stuff but really. My desk/dead people - two things I don't want to see in the one sentence ever again, ok? I don't suppose I can go home because I'm "allergic to my gaseous desk"? I didn't think so.

In fact, work-related stress has a powerful impact on employees. A study in the November issue of the American Journal of Public Health demonstrated a significant relationship between work stress and depression.

That's...no. Really? Stress at work is linked to depression? Tell me you are shitting me? It usually makes me want to buy the world a Coke.

I'm not sure I can accept that someone wrote that paragraph, seriously.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Five Lame Things About Me

At the request of The Lady...

Peoples, these are the instructions. I’m not going to tag anyone because then you’ll all hate me and say mean things like “God, the Guv’ner is a slave driver and is trying to steal information about us for the FBI.” Which, while possibly true, is quite unfair of you and I might cry.

TO DO: List 5 things you do, did or like that some may consider “totally lame,” but that you are totally proud of. Tag 5 others:


1) I like toys. Not little kid toys but theme toys. Like my X-Files dolls. I have Mulder and Scully and sometimes I pose them in compromising positions and take photos (see Exhibit A) and I think this is quite hilarious. They live in a cabinet in my living room with my South Park Dolls, my Dalek cookie jar and my giant imagination. I will even use props (See Exhibit B). This is because I have a) too much time on my hands, and b) I’m slightly retarded.

2) I often cut my own hair and think it looks great. I mean I do go to salons but in between it gets all annoying and odd and I’m not made of money so out come the scissors and then I think it looks fabulous and all those people on the subway are only looking at me out of sheer jealousy at my all-encompassing beauty.

3) I secretly like big, emotional soundtrack type songs that make you cry. I hate to admit this since I’m a former punk band member and formerly of the school of “if it’s not obscure it’s heinous” but soundtrack emotionally draining songs? Get me every time. Even that abortion of a song Aerosmith did for “Armageddon” with the really creepy video that intersperses Steven Tyler looking like the Grim Reaper with parts of the movie that make him look like he’s having a love affair with his own daughter. Ew! Actually, him having an affair with anything of the human species is kind of frightening to think about.

4) I watched “Rock Of Love With Bret Michaels” on VH1. Need I say more?

5) I like to listen to conversations on the scanner radio between pilots flying into the NY airports and the control tower. This does not make me a geek. They say the occasional funny thing like “This is American 509 Heavy, I just spilled hot coffee on my crotch and burned my berries, it was high-larious. Oh and yeah, there’s an Air France jet about to collide with us if you could do something about that, over?”

I am not lame!

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

For Future Reference

After a crazy, busy, grouchy day at work, as I was sitting on a bench outside my building scrolling through tracks on my iPod, a cherubic, blue eyed eight year old approached me with a smile and a piece of paper which she held out to me, practically begging me to mess with her head.

"No thanks!" I said. "I already have ten of those."

"It's for the fortune teller." she told me. "So you can find out your future."

"I know my future." I replied. "It involves homicide and a bong."

She looked at me not saying anything, probably because she didn't understand either word although she understood enough to know I was being a douche.

"I'm kidding." I said, feeling bad for her. "I don't have a future. And neither do you. We're all going to die, so you should ditch the paper and get a real job."

She blinked at me, unsure what to say. "I'm only eight." she pointed out.

I sighed. "Just gimme the flier." I said.

Poor kid. Who sends an eight year old girl out to hand out fliers to strangers?