Posts Tagged ‘work’

All of this talk about recession and depression has put a toll on people this holiday season.  I’ve heard alot of people saying they aren’t even going to exchange gifts…  well that is just too bad because after all that is what Christmas is truly about.  One of my friends’ families waits til Dec 27th to give presents, so they can buy everything cheaper at the after christmas sales.  What a deliciously easy way to scam the system, why haven’t we all thought of that by now?  Don’t feel bad, they are a family of rocket scientists.

Usually, we have a work Christmas party Holiday party.  We go out to dinner somewhere and half the department doesn’t show up, and the half who does show up is only there for the free food and opportunity to see our boss get drunk.   This year, of course, there will be no parties company-wide.  There will be a gathering at my bosses house, but I won’t be attending.  Mainly, because I don’t work there anymore.  Oh wait, did I forget to mention that?  Yea, no longer a banker.

Speaking of that, when you part ways with a job, there is one thing that really occurs to you the next morning when you wake up,  And that is:   how much crap you had at your desk.    After I emptied the box onto my counter, I was awestruck at just how much crap I had.  However, my crap was anything but useless- and if anything you should take notes on some of the extraordinarily useful and essential items I had there.


1.  A “He’s Just Not That Into You” daily calendar, still set at January 3rd ’08.  Not only was this book revolutionary and needs to be read by all women, but lets face it, it’s attractive as well.  And now for a close up:


2.  Aloe vera.   You never know when the fluorescent lights are going to get ya.  It’s best to be prepared.

3.   A Metallic, pre-lit mini Christmas tree.  I’m not going to lie to you.  I considered it, but then I thought – no, it’s Christmas.  This tree had been on my desk since October of 07.   I just didn’t light it all the time.

4.  A dollar store christmas candle from my secret santa last year.  Oops.  I either forgot to take it home, or I was scared it would blow up my house.  Who’s to know.

5.  The salt from the breakroom.  I mean, I use it so much it might as well just be at my desk.

Then, in a random twist of fate, there were things I’d forgotten.  So I went to go pick up another box from HR….. and what do I find?


Um, it’s nice that they returned my PLASTIC silverware, but they really didn’t need to leave the crusty generic peanut butter still on it.  Seriously?

You know what else pops into your head the day after you part ways?  The fact that you don’t have a job.


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I come from a long line of procrastinators.  My dad, for example, still hasn’t started socking away money for my college education.  This would piss me off if it weren’t for the fact that I quit college anyway to pursue creative endeavors (and also cus I ran out of money), which have proved to be much more interesting than social sciences or whatever fake career I might have gotten.


This leads me to my next point – Senior citizens.  Who the heck do these people think they are?  I’m on the phone with a lady today and she wants me to do a money transfer for her.  The conversation is as follows:


Me:  Ok, I can transfer $100 from your savings to your checking, and that will be a $3 fee.


Her: Well it shouldn’t.


Me:  What?


Her:  It shouldn’t charge a fee.


Me:  Why is that?


Her:  Because I’m a Senior Citizen.


Me: Um. 


Her:  I have a loan with you guys too.


Me:  Ok.  Neither of those things make a difference.  There’s still a fee.


This isn’t Old Country Buffet.   old-country-buffet


So, how old do you have to be before you start assuming that everything is just free? 




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The fact that my everyday life [from the hours of 8-4:30] is a mirror image of The Office is beside the point.   Last Monday, I arrive at work to find myself in the middle of Customer Service Appreciation week, which was kicked off by my boss wearing a Hawaiian shirt while cooking us breakfast (except he didn’t accidentally grill his foot in a George Foreman).  I’m a part of the “fun committee” or in Office terms the “party planning committee.”   My manager really pushed to have “Cowboy day” because he had a cowboy shirt that he wanted to wear.  We told him nobody had anything cowboy-ish, but he could wear it anyway.  He didn’t. Wednesday was hat day, and at the end of the day everyone who was wearing a hat had to line up against the wall and have our picture taken for our department homepage.  Every time we were supposed to smile, I held up my name plate in front of my face and no one ever noticed.   More on that later.


I have this next conversation about seventeen times a day, and it raises some major concerns in my mind about what century we are living in:


Me:  Thank you for calling _____, how may I help you?

Her:  Account balance.

Me:  OK. your name please?

Her:  Smith.

Me:  and your NAME please?

Her:  OH….. Jane.

Me:  Thank you.  The last four of your social?

Her:  My husband’s is 5432.

Me: sigh.  And the last four of YOUR social?

Her: oh, MINE…. Hmm… let me think.

Me: sigh.

Her:  Well, it’s probably under my husband’s.

Me:  You are the one calling.  The fact that you can tell me your husband’s information does not help me verify that I’m talking to you.  I need YOUR SOCIAL #$%#^%#!!!

Her: Um, ok, it’s um, 7654 I think.

Me:  thank you.



And all of this time, I thought it was no longer 1820, and women were actually considered people.  But every time I think I understand something…  someone has to go and prove me wrong.


On Hippie Day,  I went as an anti-hippie and wore this shirt:



 If you’re interested in getting your own, or other tasty, tasty shirts visit www.thoseshirts.com

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 [I work with a girl that I’ve know since birth.  As I was warming up my lunch today, she was eating macaroni and cheese, and I happened to ask how her brother was doing.   This is the exact conversation that took place.  I wish I were creative enough to make this up, but I am not.]


me: so how’s your brother these days?  haven’t seen him in forever.
friend: he’s good. i don’t know what he’s going to do though, he just got fired.
me: from the tombstone-selling job?
friend: no, from his gas station job.
me:  he had a gas station job? 
friend: yea, so, i don’t know.  he is still working toward his degree in psychology.
me: psychology?  oh wow.  i never knew that… i always thought he would be
friend: a white rapper?  yea, me too.
me:  oh man, i was so worried about him a couple years ago, I thought he was never going
to get through that ghetto phase.
friend:  he didn’t.

me: oh noooooo.  thats terrible.  so he still wears the clothes, and says all kinds of words that make no sense?
friend: um, yes. 
me:  i remember going on his myspace and seeing all these references to “shorty.”  I was like, whats up with the rapper slang?
friend: yea, that’s our grandma.  
me: oh.  and he had all these R.I.P messages
to people?
friend: seriously, he really needs to chill out.  if anyone who dies within 5 degrees of him he thinks he gets a RIP tatoo.
me: yea, for awhile there i felt bad for him cus i thought all his friends were dying.
friend:  i’m like, “you don’t have to get tatoos of everyone listed in our church bulletin who died.” 
me: aaaaaaah hahahah.  oh man…
friend: his myspace headline says, “i hate white people.”
me: but he’s white?
friend:  i told him my shirt was black the other day and he called me a racist.  when we went to Cancun, the only book he would read was 101 important facts about African American history.
me:  he wants to be a counselor?  but he’s so messed up?
friend:  i know
me:  well maybe, he’ll psychoanalyze himself.
friend: thats what i keep hoping.

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Every morning, my alarm goes off at 6:30.  I know in the depths of my soul that I have no intention of actually getting up at this ungodly hour, but still it is set.  My actual intention is to press the snooze until 6:45, but I also fail at that because I do not want to be continually disturbed by the most annoying sound in the world.  So I rely on my internal alarm clock to wake me up at the correct hour.  Now, generally, this works. 

Unfortunately, as of late, my internal body alarm is set at 7:05.  When this alarm sounds, I roll over, grab my remote, and turn on the TV.  In my my mind, I am hoping that I will hear something so interesting that I will be forced to get up and check it out…but unfortunately, I am no longer startled by the fact that there is an election going on, nor the fact that Geraldo Rivera is in reporting live from the eye of a new hurricane every three days. This puts me in a bit of a precarious situation as I am left with approximately 40 minutes to take a shower, dry and straighten my very long hair (which could take an hour in itself), eat, make a lunch, get dressed, and leave my house by 7:45. This may seem an impossible feat, and you would be correct in assuming that is why it never gets done.

Needless to say, I usually end up rolling out of bed, rocking the pony tail, eating some Eggos, busting last night’s leftovers, and almost committing involuntary manslaughter on anyone who comes close to me on the road.

I must admit I had a bit of a chipper attitude as I rode the rickety elevator up to the fifth floor this morning, of course, the only reason being it’s friday.  However, as soon as I sat down to my computer and took my first call of the day, everything changed.  When I asked the first gentleman I spoke to today if he could identify his password, he replied, “Neil Diamond.”


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Everyday, on my way to work, I drive past a video store.  A couple days ago, I noticed three young men outside the store holding up “ON Strike!” signs.  OK.  My first thought was, is this a joke?  Are they really on strike from the video store, or have they just accidentally stood in front of it with strike signs?   It was hard for me to dicipher this since they were facing each other talking instead of actually protesting to the people driving by…

Low and behold, the following day – they’re still there.    Same guys.  Same configuration.  Same hard to read “ON Strike!” signs.  Maybe this isn’t a joke.

Third day, I drive by and the guys aren’t there…but a parked car has taken their place.  And when I take a second glance, I see three guys sitting inside the car, eating pizza, with the “ON Strike!” sign propped up on their car door.

now that’s how you prove a point.

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