“He’s trying to usurp my power,” CollickyBaby declares when I walk into her office
like an idiot.
Apparently, someone ignored CollickyBaby at a meeting – and it’s been bothering her for a month.
[Are you kidding me?! I would pay not to go to meetings. I would pay more to be ignored when I go. ]
Oh, fickety fackety fuck! She’s about to cry.
[Not cool. Must I say this again - unless, someone hammers your hand to your desk, seal up your tear ducts with Crazy Glue at work. Work is about pretending to be someone stable or just better than the "real" you. No one cares about the "real" you at work, unless the "real" you can give them more vacation days or money. So, suck it up!]
How did I get myself into this? Boredom.
Boredom gets me into a lot of trouble. Like trying to have a friendly
sane chat with CollickyBaby.
Fifteen percent of the time CollickyBaby is so funny – I mean kitten-on-crack hilarious – so much so that I always forget that the other 85% of the time she is a friggin’ wingnut.
Note to self: Seriously, dude. Stop forgetting important stuff.
Like shutting the door.
Forgetting this small task is why I was running around my house one night over Memorial Day weekend with my ginormous titties swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
Okay. Let’s back up. Here was the plan.
- Take a shower. Check.
- Stand in front of the fan in the living room naked to dry off (this so amazing). Check.
- Get into bed with my new sheets and comforter and figure out how to make love to my new Kindle Fire. Not. So frakking not!
First, I slipped my naked body between the sheets, under the comforter.
[Oh, Goddess of all things beautiful, RuPaul, this is orgasmic!] There is nothing like new sheets.
I propped my head up on my fluffy pillows, turning on my Kindle Fire. [Let's do it, Baby!]
Then, something so foul, so cruel, so utterly disgusting happened…
Mid-Kindle-new-sheets orgasm, I notice a nice and neat mound of cat puke at the bottom of my
Then, in true psycho fashion – I convince myself that if I just closed the door, which I never do – my cat would not have had access to my bed.
[Like cats give a shit about doors. To a cat, a closed door is something to conquer.]
Now, I am stumbling through my dark home, smelling appropriately-fruity, and yelling, “You suuuuuuck!”
When I find him, I will throw the furry culprit out the window [which would accomplish nothing because we're are on the first floor. But it’s the thought that counts. Right?]
There he is, just lying there staring directly at me – and getting hair all over my living room chair!
Look at him.
So smug. So entitled. So well-fed. [No more expensive food for you! Thou art evil!]
Aw… look at him.
So cute. So semi-loving, showing a haughty disdain for my banal existence. Isn’t it adorable?
I just gotta pet him. “Oh, I’m sorry for yelling furry babykins. Mommy is naughty… so so naughty,” I say in the most obnoxious baby talk (that really should be illegal).
So it’s just me and Dakota sitting in this huge wicker chair in the middle of the night. In the dark. I totally can’t face the comforter situation without a sedative. And he’s doing that cool purring thing.
I turn on the light.
And there is dried puke on the arm of the chair.
This time, it is not a mound. This is more like a layer of cream cheese spread on a bagel.
[Just stab me. I'm tired. I can't run fast.]
Because my cats are fashion-forward, the puke is color-coordinated to the color of the wicker. I would have never found it had it not been for the comforter puke leading me to this very special Hallmark moment
where my cat should really be grateful that I don’t believe in violence against animals.
Imagine the audacity to chill out in the same chair where the crime has been committed. This cat is one diabolical bastard.
The layer of cream cheese has solidified now. And cat hair is stuck to it like peach fuzz.
Now, I want to cry.
I spent an hour dislodging petrified cat puke from the teeny tiny grooves in the wicker with a pointy steak knife [which I only briefly considered stabbing my self with.]
And another hour sterilizing my comforter.
It’s like my cats just sit around all day trying to figure out ways to do the grossest things imaginable.
And I hate that I love them so much.
Question: Why do I have cats again? I already have enough things in my life that consistently annoy me. That is the sole purpose of work. And some people.
I try to reassure CollickyBaby that she wasn’t being excluded when he forgot to mention her. He was just making sure every one else was included since the client already met her
crazy ass. [I really feel like I'm talking to my 6-year-old niece who cries at the drop of a hat. But she's six. So there's that.]
Do I look like a person who should be consoling people?
- I pee in my sink when there is no toilet.
- “Cleaning cat puke” can officially be added to my resume.
- And I don’t know how to manage my time so I can produce a blog once a week [and I am sorry. Really. But I am a hot mess when it comes to time management. To me, time management is like a unicorn running through my yard and I can't catch it - because y'all know damn well I won't run unless a mugger is involved... Anyway, sorry again. I am a hot mess.]
CollickyBaby refuses to listen to reason. And I am bored now.
Then, she launches into this elaborate narrative about control and power and shock and awe. Her tale had everything but Snow White and the Wicked Witch.
“You were there,” she said. “Don’t you remember?” I hate when people ask me to remember those dumb meetings.
But I do remember. I remember that nothing she has said has actually happened. Everything has been exaggerated and distorted. Blown way out of proportion.
Now, I have to defend management.
And I hate that shit. I was born to question all authority. It’s a hobby. Like gardening. Or ignoring annoying people [which I clearly screwed up today.]
Question: How do you tell someone everything they said did not happen?
“Um… Everything you just said did not happen,” I say, “Just talk to him. Clear the air and get on with it.”
Hm… A bit douchebag-y. No?
Everything always seems to come out wrong when I’m bored.
At least, this time – technically – it’s not my mess to clean.
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