Category: blog

 

I regularly send emails to my entire department – all 4,000 plus employees. Typically, this results in a barrage of ‘Out of Office’ automated responses. My most recent mass email, however, evoked major activity. In addition to automated responses, staff were replying with comments and not just to me, rather, to all.

 

This behavior was quite upsetting to some so they followed up, also replying to all, with angry instructions advising against such activity. Once others received the unsolicited instructions, they purposely replied to all. Responses varied, but all caps seemed to be a popular option. Some of my favorites were:

 

Can you guys stop responding to all?

I have no coorispondence.   (Apparently they didn’t have SpellCheck either)

REMOVE ME from this LIST!

I am getting SO many emails from everyone about this issue. 🙂

Everyone stop responding on line-it’s getting annoying!!!!~!

Does everyone need to respond to this email?

GOOD GRIEF!  STOP HITTING REPLY ALL!!!!!    (No, this wasn’t from Charlie Brown)

Dude all these messages really need to go to every one?

I’m quite certain that the entire department would like to know that I have not had any correspondence either.

How about NO ONE reply?

Please just email the sender privately.

Sorry for another “reply all”, but it’s a Monday morning, and I’m sure others are thinking it, so I’m saying it: Could we just respond to the sender on this?

i’M NOT AMUSED.  i DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS.

 

Five hours and hundreds of emails later, even though I was finding this activity quite comical, I opted to send an email etiquette reminder to everyone so as to put the angry at ease. Nothing like reminding 4,000 adults who hide behind the green curtain of technology that they are acting like children.

 

If only I could have just quoted the Wizard, preferably in all caps, “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”

 

 

Thanks to the Yale Club I now own a cute little red collared dress. After wearing it one time,  it was a bit wrinkled. I hung it near the shower in hopes that the moisture would get the wrinkles out. A few days after doing so, Oreggano stopped by, used the loo, and complimented me on the dress, “That’s really cute. Why is it hanging in the shower?” “It was really wrinkly. Plus, I noticed a white spot on it so I’m leaving it there to remind me to get it cleaned.” “Way to go Monica Lewinsky,” she replied.

 

With my collared red (and white spot) dress still hanging in the shower, MiniMe returned from Alaska with a homemade kuspuk. “I sewed the whole thing by hand. All of it, even the riffraff on my dress,” she told me. “Ric rac, not riffraff. Trust me you do not want riffraff on your dress. If you don’t believe me, ask Oreggano and Monica Lewinksy,” I replied.

 

 

When Ice Cream Man and Sleepless requested a ride home from the airport after being in Mexico for the week Tree and I knew a good retrieval was in order. I owned a bolera hat, pimped out with red dingle balls, which seemed like a great idea, but I wasn’t sure what I could wear with it. As I went through my costume boxes I pulled out a possible outfit for Tree – bedazzled brown velour bell bottoms and a muscle tee with an eagle on it and the text “America.”

 

Although Tree liked the outfit, he had concerns the pants might be too hot so he started rummaging through one of my boxes and found three mumus. “We could wear these, floppy hats and sunglasses. It will be perfect!” he exclaimed. He was right. As he, Awkward and I waited at the baggage claim for Ice Cream Man and Sleepless to arrive we received several looks of interest. Awkward received the most looks, but he was donning facial hair. Our welcome home was well received by Sleepless and Ice Cream Man, but was exhausting for Tree and Awkward so they opted for a quick smoking break. As I observed them in their mumus, floppy hats, sunglasses and smoking cigarettes while perched upon a bike rack I realized we had a reality TV show in the making (again) – Honey Moo Moo!

 

After their smoke break we decided to grab a bite to eat. Tree and I remained in ‘character,’ but Awkward found it awkward, thus, left his mumu in the car. Craving some traditional American food after a week in Mexico, Ice Cream Man ordered cheese fondue. With the fondue pot in the middle of the table,  it was difficult to see how much of our bread was actually getting in the cheese. “I can’t tell how deep it is,” I told Sleepless. “Sometimes I like just the tip,” Tree said while adjusting his mumu. “Not in my fondue!” Sleepless replied and added, “I want all of it in. None of this ‘just the tip’ business.”

 

Unlike Honey Boo Boo, we didn’t need subtitles for our viewers. The other patrons had been watching us since we paraded in and were, clearly, hanging on our every audible word. We ate until our bellies were full and, even then, we ordered dessert – cookies and milk. The thing about the mumu is you’ve got plenty of room for more food, but even when you’ve got plenty of room, sometimes your body just won’t allow another bite. As the famous toddler in the tiara once so wisely said, “When my belly hurts it’s usually because of gas or too many chicken nuggets.”

 

 

 

As of late my blog has been a lot like a big red diary only instead of tracking wimpy behavior, I’ve been tracking my gimpy behavior.

 

Just a few weeks after being out of my sling I attended a barbecue and, within minutes, I was laying flat on my back, mojito all over my right arm and my nearly healed left wing tucked into my chest. Turns out, stamped concrete is quite slippery when wet. Like most who fall, I quickly looked around to see if anyone witnessed it (nobody did), attempted to get up and fell again. Third time was the charm and, luckily, I didn’t jack up my arm (again).

 

As the evening progressed, several other guests also slipped.  I spoke with the homeowner about it and he said, “I fell earlier, before everyone got here, and I was only three whiskeys in.”

 

Not sure how his ass felt later but I know how mine felt – bruised. In addition, I’ve still got limited range of motion, my external rotation seems like a distant memory, and my hand has a tendency to do it’s own thing. In fact, at this rate, I’m thinking Buster and I should compare DNA.

 

With the exception of the fact that I wasn’t on stage, in costume or singing, my follow-up appointment with my surgeon today was a true operatic performance.

 

It was raining when I arrived and as I crossed the street (an act that got me into this trouble to begin with) I almost slipped. For the purpose of today’s performance, instead of calling it ‘slipping,’ I will refer to it as ‘dancing.’

 

Like most performances, still photos (x-rays) were taken and when my surgeon saw them it was as if he was looking at the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition (not usually found at the opera, but there is a chance there might be one in the dressing room). “This looks great! Just amazing! Do you have any idea how rare this break was? Unbelievable,” he proclaimed while the nature channel played in the background. “Great,” I said, extended both arms outward and asked, “Do you see this?” “Yes. You may never be able to straighten your arm again. That’s normal,” he replied, nonchalantly, then said, “Now, raise your arm like an opera star!”

 

My performance was stellar. Like most operas, a libretto was involved – a prescription for six more weeks of physical therapy. “Do I need to schedule a follow-up with you?” I asked. “No, we’re through. You only need to come back if something bad happens again,” he replied. Being that I’m not interested in an encore, or theatrical goodbyes, I quickly paid my out-of-pocket and exited stage right, like an opera star!

While at a barbecue with Tree, Awkward and FatGirl we discussed hoarding. As Tree and I were exchanging stories FatGirl asked Awkward, “Are you dirty?” I didn’t hear the question, rather, I heard Awkward’s response, “That was a rude question.” My maternal instinct kicked in and I asked FatGirl, “What did you ask him?” FatGirl relayed the story and said, “I wasn’t trying to be rude I just thought he looked like he might be dirty.” I then asked FatGirl how it was possible that he provide counseling to others. “Are you dirty?” FatGirl again asked Awkward, this time trying to pass it off as a sexual question. “Also inappropriate,” I advised him and added, “Boundaries.”

 

A little while later Tree and I were laughing about some recent articles on The Onion and referenced the headline, “U.S. Border Patrol Increases Staff by Hiring Cheap Immigrant Labor.” “Are you serious?” FatGirl asked. “Yep,” I replied. “That is really a story?” he asked. “It’s in The Onion,” Tree replied. “I can’t believe that! We crossed their border, they didn’t cross our border,” FatGirl told us. “You’ve never crossed any border,” Tree told FatGirl. “Maybe at Taco Bell,” I quipped. It took FatGirl two days to figure out The Onion is pure satire with a hint of reality.

 

I drove home to find my neighbors had, once again, forgotten we shared a driveway. Their cars were parked partially in the shared driveway and partially in their driveway. In addition, trash was scattered across the driveways. Unfortunately, this has become a regular occurrence with them.  I shared my frustrations about this with my coworker, ROFL, who advised, “If she’s a bitch, just fuck him while she’s at work. Then she’ll move out, he’ll move out, it will work itself out. Definitely need to fuck him. Bend over a lot when outside. Change the focus of your attempts to resolve.” Although his plan might work, and they are constantly ‘crossing the border,’ unlike FatGirl, I must maintain my boundaries.

Years ago, when I used to go to church dances, the leaders would talk to us about the amount of space that needed to remain between the dancers. “You should be able to put the bible in between the two of you,” they advised. None of us, at least none of my friends, carried a bible around and we were all horrible at guestimating, so I’m pretty sure we violated the rules on more than one occasion.

Speaking of violating rules, after drinking and pedaling around town for several hours, the #antiboredom group decided to finish the night out at a bar that has recently decided it is posh. We arrived to find roped lines, bouncers in suits, reserved sections and a ton of assholes. Yep, this place was posh.

We immediately started dancing – us in our heavy metal 80s gear, the rest of the crowd attempting to dress to impress – and, a few songs in, I was asked, “Will you dance with my friend?” “Sure,” I obliged. The friend, who was probably just barely 21 and who spent way more time in the gym than on the dance floor, pulled me in tight and would not let me go. This seemed to be his preferred dance style and I immediately wished someone would bring me a bible, stat!

As the song neared the end, I imagined my freedom. Luckily, my imagination was as strong as his hold – he wasn’t letting go. I was able to turn around so my back was to him. Doing so, not surprisingly, did not change his dance moves. Tight and close continued on until a few songs later when I was finally able to make it out of his hold. “What was that all about?” “He’s your daughter’s age.” “Could you feel his thing?” were just some of the comments from the #antiboredom group.

I’m not really sure where he learned to dance, but I am sure I am going to have to stay at a motel room so I can steal a bible because I really don’t want to experience that kind of closeness on the dance floor again. Besides, if you’re going to break the rules by stealing something, it may as well be a bible – the Lord is sure to forgive that act.

In an attempt to break any boredom one might be experiencing in the thick of the summer (is that possible?) we planned #antiboredom campaign 2013. This involved three key components: costumes, a pedal hopper and drinking – proof than one can drink and still enjoy a healthy lifestyle.

 

Concerned about my safety, Beaner was adamant that I not pedal and, instead, stand in the middle of the pedal hopper acting as bartender and, as it turned out, dance to the music as we (they) pedaled through the city streets.

 

By the time we hit the first bar, all of us in our wigs and most of us looking like we just stepped out of an 80s music video (audition), Live Longer was exhausted, “My legs are like noodles. I can’t pedal anymore.” I couldn’t feel her pain because my legs had been busy tending bar and dancing – no pedaling for the girl with the disability, but I was willing to trade her places and promised Beaner I would do so safely.

 

After quickly having a drink at the first bar stop, Beaner took center pedal hopper stage and Live Longer relaxed on the back bench while I pedaled near the front. Now I know why they say drinking and exercise don’t mix – that was a lot of work and a lot of the party wasn’t pedaling. That said, it is difficult to hear anything, to include, “pedal,” under the weight of synthetic hair.

 

Several bars later, we pedal hopped our way back to the first stop, a few people ditched their wigs, and we ventured, by foot, on to our next destination. With or without brakes, when we put the pedal to the metal and the metal to the pedal, there is no stopping #antiboredom.

The New York Post is a great source for all kinds of trivial information. The other evening, while getting my ‘I can’t sleep’ dose of the Post, I ran across an article about bottle service girls.

 

These are the girls who pour incredibly overpriced bottles of alcohol (champagne is always a given) for people with a lot of money. They typically work at high end clubs, festivals or private parties. In addition to profiting from the alcohol prices, they make tips and have opportunities for ‘extra’ income.

 

As I read the article about these women, six of whom decided to start their own business and call it TheSix (they are actually only five, but when you make as much money as they do you eventually stop counting), I thought to myself, “The Seismic Six, now Freestyle Five, could totally do this!” We don’t make that much money, yet, so when we lose one, we notice.

 

I really think we could do this. We’re like champagne – bubbly; like vodka – filtered, especially on Instagram; and, together, were like some wines – blended.  As far as a business name, as much as I like Freestyle Five, I think we need to do something a little more catchy and self-explanatory. As I re-read the Post article (for strategic planning purposes), I decided we should call ourselves ‘Low-Tech Ho,’ after one of TheSix’s highest paying customers, Low Taek Jho.

 

Low Taek Jho is a Malaysian man who nobody really knows. Nobody really seems to care, however, because he spends a lot of money at their places of business. In fact, one evening, he spent $60,000 on bottle service. Which makes me think we can get at least $10,000 out of him for box service (not a double entendre). We don’t do bottles, we’re low-tech hos.

Live Longer stopped by for coffee by my Thursday morning creek. Sadly, the creek only runs for 45 minutes and by the time we got out there it was just trickling. I’m sure Confucius would have something to say about that.

 

Confucius has said, “Girl who live in glass house dress in basement.” I don’t live in a glass house (but I would love a great sunroom addition), but dressing is an issue for me and it isn’t just because of my windows. “Your creepy neighbor was just sitting on his porch with his big hairy chest staring at me,” Live Longer informed me as she handed my half-dressed ass a coffee. “Welcome to my world,” I replied and then attempted to get dressed.

 

Although the instructional video about dressing with a gimp arm was relatively helpful, dressing and undressing is still a bit of a task for me. After I struggled for a minute getting my dress over my head Live Longer said, “I guess I should have helped you instead of just standing here staring.” “It’s OK. I’ve got to get this shit figured out and I’m used to creepy looky-loos,” I replied. Nothing worse than a disabled dick. Interpret that as you may.

 

I continued to struggle with my side zipper and finally caved. “I give up. Do you mind helping?” I asked. Live Longer kindly obliged. “The worst part is at the end of the day. I often get stuck in my clothes and I have a feeling this one is going to cause problems. Sometimes I  could really use some help getting them off,” I informed her. “Your neighbors or your clothes?” Live Longer asked. “Gross,” I replied.