Hold the Glimmer

Archive for the ‘corporateshmorporate’ Category

 

It’s been a rough one, glimmies.  I’m sure all three of you were well aware of our absence (please just let me believe you were at least.. I need SOMETHING TO BELIEVE IN right now….), but SHIT has gone DOWN in the last month and I haven’t had enough time to formulate words in to a post.  Let me rephrase that- I’ve had MORE THAN ENOUGH TIME to write a post because I am officially unemployed.

 
yep.
 
Dream company? see yuh.
 
How did this all happen?  Well, I’m still in a haze of “unclear”, followed by shock, and the inevitable depression.  I wish I could write a series of events leading up to my “departure”, but I genuinely have no idea how it happened.  I was never warned, I was never counseled, hell I was being praised on a daily basis.  I guess not being “the right fit” in a group of 40+ year old scorned women, means I’m not ready to dedicate my life to being…a 40yr old..scorned woman?  Maybe my boss didn’t like exclamation points after my “Thanks” for the 20 Lakers tickets, handful of Clippers games, soccer games, concerts, or other notable events.  Maybe the board meeting I single-handedly prepared for 4 people (that turned into 12…the day of the meeting…at the penthouse of the Ritz…) wasn’t up to par, but the grateful emails from all attendee’s seemed to validate a good job?  Maybe he wasn’t happy that I was on vacation in the desert, sitting in my car, on the phone with the travel agency for over 30 minutes, scheduling same day flights and hotel accommodations to Texas and then a quick day stop in New York? Maybe I just wasn’t good at creating an entirely new filing system on my second week, purging an entire 4 foot cabinet of unnecessary files, and filing 6 years worth of stuff his last assistant “forgot” to do. Maybe learning their expense reporting program on my own and presenting him with an expense report for a months worths of receipts ( ON MY EIGHTH DAY) that i took it upon myself to track down from various hotels and restaurants across the country because his last assistant “forgot to do one and couldn’t find the receipts”….wasn’t good enough for him?
 
Who. knows. 
 
All I can remember is an HR rep walking in to his office at 4:15, his door opening at 4:30, and a calm “Hey Tracy, can you step inside my office for a minute” from ex-bossman, followed by “you were an incredible employee and we hope you can find another position within the company, but….” Then some blah, blah, blah, and ex-bossman interrupting HR rep with “I’m really sorry, but I’m late for a meeting.”  He stood up and walked out.  I didn’t get a hand shake.  I didn’t get a thank you.  I didn’t get an “I’m sorry.”  Just like that, it was done.  The HR rep asked for my badge, my parking pass, and told me I wasn’t allowed to touch my computer “for security reasons” and to grab whatever I could off of my desk.  She handed me a parking validation to get out of my lot.  And then, I left.  Just like that.  No tears, until I turned the corner on my last walk to my parking structure, where I started bawling uncontrollably and sprinting to my car.  To make matters even more comically worse, the validation I was given was expired.  I COULDNT EVEN EXIT THE GODDAMN PARKING LOT.  I drove around feverishly, trying to find a parking attendant, who then told me I would need my original parking pass to exit.  I tried to stay calm, but instead yelled “I JUST FUCKING LOST MY JOB AND I WANT TO GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING PARKING LOT.  THIS IS ALL THEY GAVE ME.  OPEN THE GATE BEFORE I DRIVE THROUGH IT.” And she did.  And I drove home, crying uncontrollably, calling my mom, calling my friends, yelling at drivers at the top of my lungs with the windows down, being THAT GIRL on the afternoon commute home.
 
(ps writing this is totally NOT THERAPEUTIC, DUKE.)
 
I’m so embarrassed.  I’m also pretty sure that’s the reason I’ve failed to inform MANY of my friends and family.  I just……ugh…I felt so important. I felt like the coolest kid in class being able to call friends on a whim to join me at the game that night, or for a concert, or whatever AWESOME thing was given to me for that night or weekend.  I know that friendships are more than some REALLY AWESOME GAMES, but to be able to give that to somebody?  Fuck man…it was just so damn cool.  I felt like a rock star.  Every. Night. Of. The. Week.
 
and then it all just… disappears.  Do you realize how difficult that is?  
 
Fortunately for me, I have the absolute most incredible support system in the world.  My meltdown lasted all of 22 hours, followed by the best soul-searching dinner of my life with Duke (granted, we were knee-deep in Tennessee honey (ie: whiskey…keep up kids..))  Duke, being one of the wisest in my arsenal of friends, reminded me that not only do I now have the opportunity to do whatever the fuck I want, but I can also go back to school and finally get my degree.
 
So, that’s what I’m going to do.  I’m going to pursue my dream of writing (without three hundred run-on sentences. ((HA or triple parenthesis! (((LIES.))) Who knows, this whole blog may take a new form of Community-esque amazement? I can’t even begin to imagine my new daily character encounters! Maybe it wont? All I know is that I’m holding the glimmer, as strongly as I can.

Step in to My Office…

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(ps- this is Tracy.)

Ya, I made these for a friend’s birthday party AND St. Patty’s Day.  Absolutely gorgeous, I know!  I’m not that single, I just really enjoy baking (and compliments…) and making my friends happy! Barf, right? It’s true, it’s true.  As disheartened as I may come off on this blog, my black heart really bleeds red and I guess I put a tiny bit of effort into keeping and making friendships, because that’s what it’s all about.  Besides, the more value I put on you, the more likely I’m paying my friendship dues super hardcore, which means I’m REALLY GOING TO NEED YOU WHEN I CRUMBLE, WHICH IS AT ANY GIVEN TIME BECAUSE MY LIFE IS FREAKING INCREDIBLE RIGHT NOW AND THIS SHEER JOY HAS TO END AT SOME POINT AND THAT POINT COULD VERY WELL BE ANY SECOND, SO PLEASE REMEMBER THAT TIME WHEN I TALKED TO YOU FOR HOURS, COACHING YOU ON WHAT EVER LIFE LESSON IT WAS FOR THE DAY, KEEPING YOU OFF THAT LEDGE, SENDING YOU E-TISSUES OR E-CARDS, OR CALLING YOUR OFFICE TO TELL THE RECEPTIONIST TO RUN IN TO THE BREAKROOM AND STOP YOU FROM TAKING THAT BITE OF A BEAR CLAW.  Really, I might need you one day.

Oh, glimmerheads, you make my world spin round.  I want to thank whomever is doing our PR all over the eastern hemisphere.  We had unique views from Saudi Arabia, Paraguay, Latvia (um?), Russian Federation and United Arab Emirates just to name a few! Granted, the 4 clicks from U.A.E. were blocked due to content (hahahahahah WHAT A SENTENCE! BLOCKED IN OTHER COUNTRIES?!?! Holding the glimmer worldwide!!!) and the 4 hits this morning from Mexico were all related to Google searches that may or may not include the words: gagging, Sarah Palin eats corn dog (it was Bachmann, you idiot), choking, and bald sweat, we really do value our insanely anonymous PR rep that’s not associated with the United States.

I’ve been coming around to this whole daylight savings thing.  Kinda. Don’t get it twisted, 4 out of 5 days of the week, I’m still watching the sun come up and go down behind glass windows, in a 10 hour span, with a mere kiss of actual sun during my lunch break, but that 5th day makes it all worthwhile. The beach is far too close for me to neglect, so I’ve been trying to make a habit of appreciating those sunsets from the sand.  It’s oddly rewarding.  That’s all I can divulge without losing my street cred.  Moving on.

Now that I’m face to face with the sun during my 2hour+ daily commute (I wasn’t lying. I’m legitly facing the sun in both directions and now have to apply sun block before driving (worst hangover cure ever…)), I’ve become even more fascinated with LA drivers.  First and foremost- you’re all assholes.  I know we covered this in previous posts, but I’ve compiled a list of the people I hate the most- Los Angeles Drivers.

The Rule Maker

Oh, we’re going YOUR speed today?  Oh, you don’t mind that your speed is 20 mph below the speed limit?  Oh, your violent “slow down” hand gestures totally negates the fact that you just made an illegal u-turn into MY LANE? Oh, you want to pump your brake lights a few times in an effort to warn me that you’re now approximately 100 yards away from the car in front of you? Ohhhh ok ok- YOU make the rules and we just abide by them.  Ps- you really suck.

The Show-off

OhhhhhEMmmmGeeeee WHERE DID YOU GET THOSE SUPER AWESOME RIMS THAT DO THAT TWISTY THING?!?  What IS that song that you’re playing so loudly that I heard it from the underpass of the onramp a mile away?! It’s 55 degrees and all of your windows are down, how DO you DO it?  That’s right.  You’re that guy, driving around aimlessly, proving nothing other than the fact that you know how to drive and are probably severely less endowed than your average male counterparts.  You pull up to my window at every chance you get, forgetting traffic patterns or the fact that you are negatively affecting them and making your own, hoping I’ll turn to the left to check you out as you nonchalantly pretend to sing the lyrics to your favorite song. 

The Makeup Artist

This one’s a little difficult for me to write.  You see, I’ve genuinely perfected the art of car make-up.  Seriously.  Ask any single person I know (except Duke.  Duke’s a boy. Boy’s don’t understand.) and they will tell you that one of my finest gifts is transforming my face in front of a rearview mirror.  I get that it’s illegal, and really dangerous, but I’ve perfected the craft and cannot stand those who haven’t.  If your mascara application is affecting the flow of traffic- I hate you.  If I’m stopped behind your brake lights, seeing your fingers feverishly circling concealer in to those under eye circles, with 50 yards of open freeway in front of you, I will honk. And motion. And do my best to make you feel horrible about the lack of attention you are paying to that pavement.  You probably think I’m a big ole hypocrite, but the fact of the matter is that this is not me.  This is you.  I already explained that I have perfected the craft and have yet to negatively affect traffic due to my fake face.  You have not.  Fix that. (and your face. Zing!)

Mr. Sticker

I’ve been known to be a fan of flair, (mainly glitter) but my flair doesn’t fly far.  I keep the fun on my desk (Whatsup awesome rhinestone calculator! Holler sparkly coffee cup holder!), or in my room, but rarely does it reach the outer limits of my car (except 2008 with my favorite Obama bumper sticker.  All the cool kids were doing it.) I think it’s awesome that you want to “coexist” and that you’re a big fan of NOFX, but once you’ve passed the two sticker mark- I’m legally allowed to consider you freaking weird.  And how the hell am I supposed to read whatever it is you’re promoting from the back of your window while I’m trying to avoid being stuck behind you in traffic.  You are a distraction! Also, when did society deem it acceptable to not only place sticker figurines of family members in order from largest to smallest on the back of your window, but to also NAME everyone?!  I’m positively freaked out when they call my name at Starbucks, let alone blasting my family on a car.  Has anyone checked the national sex offender registry lately?  Have you looked in to your local pedophiles (I do. Every. Single. Day.  I also have a sick and twisted obsession with America’s Most Wanted, but you bet your ass I’ll be the one to find your killer.  I’m still fuming I wasn’t the one to catch Whitey Bulger in Santa Monica..) Site is BOOMING and it’s because those freaks now know each of your kids’ names and their affiliation with their favorite sports.  And friends, this is really important to me.  If I ever happen to die, I swear to all that is holy that I will haunt your asses til the day you die if I see my name, date of birth, and date of death on the back of your car in sticker form.  I’d rather be memorialized via billboard including cause of death (they never include that in obituaries and I’m always curious.  Sure, they’re to honor and remember the lives of those lost, but I’m really just curious how. If I can’t be a trend setter now, I’ll be one after I die.) Thank you.

Whatsup, Ireland? How’s it going, Ecuador? Good to see you Germany and Indonesia!  Thanks for stopping by, Alaska! (Listen, it’s practically its own country and I betcha a few Palin’s will 2nd the motion. (and in one swift sentence, there go all of our Alaskan readers, floating away on glaciers with their polar bears and igloos…TRACY, SHUT UP ALREADY.)) 

I wanted to start this post with a big shout out, thanking all of our international readers for checking out the blog!  We’re so happy to be a click in your day! Now, you are more than likely an actual friend (shock- we actually have them) reading these words, who’s left the warming embrace of political, social, and economic turmoil, also known as “The United States of America,” for greener pastures in other countries (ya, I’m talking to you, Hamburg), but you have no idea the absolutely absurd amounts of value I place upon you.  While some may believe that hounding your friends to read your eloquent words formed into barely readable sentences is hardly considered notable “hits” for a blog, I have much lower expectations (morals/values/whatever) and appreciate each and every one of you bowing down to peer pressure.  Not only have you accepted my bullying, you’re actually passing this blog around to your little commie/socialist/grass skirt wearing friends (we are an actual blog. We have stats. I know exactly who you are.  Don’t trip…I know no names, only exact locations where blog was accessed.  I kid. We’re not that creepy. I think…)

Can someone explain to me the significance of daylight savings time in 2012?  Yes, I specified 2012.  I did not ask the significance of daylight savings time in 1912, where every household had at least four working family members, a block of ice for a freezer, and a butter churner in the back yard.  Ok, maybe it wasn’t that drastic. Maybe it was?  Any time period pre- regular automobile ownership is something I will never comprehend.  I have a hard enough time watching Don Draper manually change the TV channel on Mad Men (but MAN I can TOTALLY get behind drinking scotch and smoking in the workplace..), let alone understanding the complexities of a 1912 lifestyle.  What I’m trying to get at here is that we no longer need to subscribe to the idea that farmers need more daylight, while we’re dragging ass for a few days adjusting to a time that was forced upon us. 

And what the fuck, world? Some states participate, some don’t? Some countries do, some countries don’t?  Apparently, Indonesia sat down last year and said “meh, we don’t want to do daylight savings time this year…” What? How? Who declared this and why can’t we vote on it in California? And, really, what kind of ass-backwards state do WE live in requiring more daylight and fewer homos?  SWITCH THAT UP PLEASE.

PS- Do you know how incredibly depressing it is watching the sunrise on your morning commute and then watching the sunset during your afternoon drive home?  (Don’t get me started on new traffic congestion because people are now blinded by the rays on the drive home.  Buy some sunglasses, flip your mirror down; we’ll all get through this together.)  Although my office is awesome, it’s still INDOORS.  It’s like the world is telling me “HAHA! How much would you have enjoyed THIS today?!?”

-Tangent- It’s an incredibly sobering feeling when you realize you can no longer online date for lack of quality men.  Listen, I’m not searching for the finest cut filet mignon.  Although I love filet mignon, I would choose a New York (unless you’re buying, because HELLO- New York cut is ten times more flavorful without that bougie filet price tag…).  Ya, I’m using steak as an analogy for online dating.  You understood it, so stop judging me (and if you didn’t, brush up on your beef knowledge before messaging me on facebook again.  You’ll have even more potential to become my actual friend. Need even more of a backstory? Go here:http://wp.me/pHfRF-3m ) Almost every single person I’ve met online has been a complete opposite of what their elaborate profile described to me.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve met a few (very, very, VERY FEW) genuine guys from this whole experience, but not enough to make me believe that you’re not all a bunch of liars.  A couple tips, guys: 

  • Don’t send me a picture from 2008, hell anything earlier than August 2011.  I don’t care that you seemed to be the “man” in a picture with a sombrero and 30 stacked solo cups in Cabo.  It’s Cabo.  My parents have the same exact pictures, in the same exact bar, at their time share.  I’m sure it was an awesome trip, and you just love the way your skin glows, but you’re 40 lbs heavier in real life and balding.  Fortunately, you’re still moderately attractive in real life, but how can I not judge someone creating this “I’m wealthy with a full head of hair and ripped abs” persona online, who shows up at a bar in Tevas with a gut. 
  • We’re in LA, not the Colorado outback. Get rid of your Tevas.
  • I’m sure your bff4LYFE is this super hot chick that you drooled over in high school, only to become besties over facebook in college after being rejected too many times.  That’s awesome, really.  Maybe refrain from putting every single picture of the two of you on your profile?  I promise there is little to no competition, but I want to know you’re not looking for a third in the bedroom as I peruse your digital problems.
  • It’s weird emphasizing your mom is your best friend.  My mom is my best “mom” friend, but my best friend is my best friend, not my mom.  My parents are awesome and we’re super close, but (and they’ll remind you..) they’re not my friends.  They are my parents.  They have friends that are a lot cooler than some “20 something chick” they created that drunken, hazy night in the 80’s.  True story- At 10 years old, I tried “running away” after an argument  and in the midst of searching for my favorite stuffed animal (totally necessary)my Dad swooped into my room, packed my bag, walked me downstairs, opened the front door, ushered me out of the house and said “Best of luck! Call me when you find a family better than this one!”  Real bonding moment with Dad there… As excited as I am in wow-ing your folks with my…charm…I have little to no interest in shopping for lingerie with your Mom or calling her to gossip about orgasm articles in Cosmo.  You should feel the same way.

 My bigger problem is figuring out where one goes once realizing online dating just won’t work.  Do I join an anonymous help group? Is there some kind of “singles only” farm we get shipped off to?  Speaking of farms…..I was going through some old photo albums a while ago and found a picture of our first family dog, Samantha. 

“Aww, Mom! Look! Samantha! She was so sweet to me…” –me

“Ya, until she tried to attack your brother when we first brought him home from the hospital.” –mom

“Um…What?” –me

“Your brother was sleeping on your lap and Samantha was insanely jealous.  She jumped onto the couch and almost bit his face off. We had to put her down after that.” –mom

“EXCUSE ME?!” –me

“Honey, how many times do we have to go over this?  She also attacked the neighbors, the neighbor’s kids; she was an old, aggressive beast.  There was no other option.” –Mom

(my face goes blank. My jaw drops to an almost unhinged level.)

“Mom. Wait. Are you fucking kidding me right now?” –me

“Oh, come on. What’s wrong now?” –Mom

“MOM. YOU TOLD ME THAT YOU AND DAD TOOK HER TO A FAMILY THAT HAD A FARM OUTSIDE OF SAN DIEGO WHERE SHE COULD RUN AROUND AND HAVE MORE DOGS TO PLAY WITH!!!!!!” –me

“Oh, you believed that?” –Mom

“WHAT WAS MY OTHER OPTION, MOM?!?!? I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD!! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU NEVER TOLD ME AND LET ME LIVE THIS LIE FOR TWENTY YEARS?!?!?” –me

Don’t get me started on the story of my second best friend and pet fish- Bubbles.  I’m still fuming.

Oh, hi.  Come here often?

Shall we just get all of the apologies and excuses out of the way?  I can’t possibly write another exquisite piece knowing all 2 (yes, we lost 2 of you) of our readers would rather stab themselves with dull, diseased envelope openers than see me have the gall to actually blog/write/rant/complain again.  In fact, after discussing blog topics with a few trusty friends, I have a pretty strong feeling you’ll all hate me in less than 8 minutes and 2000 words, so who really cares? We move along.

I’ve missed you HTG! To say that I’ve been going through A LOT in the last few months is a major understatement and disservice to my life, but apparently some higher up form decided I paid enough dues in real-estate hell to earn a position at my DREAM COMPANY.  I’m sure you all remember Duke’s fabulous announcement a few posts back, congratulating my meager crawl across a now noted plateau in my career history, but this is different. This is major.   In fear of divulging too much and the very real possibilities of actually losing said job because of said blog, I will try and remain as anonymous about it as possible- but you should know I’m pretty important now (not like you thought differently before…), and I welcome any and all forms of flattery and bribery. 

In addition to my new title of “severely important”, I’m also officially a commuter!!  I’ve been in some form of working world since I was 16 and never had to drive more than 20 miles to any job.  For a few years there, my commute was 13 miles round trip.  I know. I was lucky…and incredibly ungrateful.  On a good day (and leaving before 7am…gross…), I’m faced with 40 minutes of concrete, commentary (thank you always, Howard Stern), and cars.  On a bad day, it’s 2 hours of planning how quickly I can get out of my car on a moving freeway to gently tap on someone’s window and ask how they became such a shitty driver in a city that doesn’t walk.  As horrible as it seems, I truly do find a sense of peace thinking there’s a “we’re all in this together” hidden attitude in each and every car on that freeway.   I’ll stop being positive now; my friends say it’s ruining our relationships.

With all this new found time to….be by myself….I’ve started having some profound conversations…with myself.  Please note- I’m really not interested in your idea or definition of profound.  This is my blog after all.

  •  If we commuters could all collectively agree to drive a minimum of 40 mph on the freeway between the hours of 7am-9am and 5pm-7pm, we’d all be far less disgruntled and I’d imagine additionally having a generally happier demeanor.  What’s most disturbing is that I would assume 75% of drivers on the freeway at those given times are every day users (I mean, only an idiot or tourist would get on an LA freeway before 9am for fun…which is describing pretty much all of LA. Fuck.), which means they have an already decided on ramp and off ramp.  Can we all just start pinky swearing to stay in our lanes til appx 2 miles from our exit?  Also- sorry trucks, but you’re out of this equation entirely.  You are awesome and ohsonecessary for too many reasons to list, but you’re officially not allowed on that freeway between those times either.  I can’t tell you how many trucks I’ve been stuck behind IN THE FAST LANE at 8am.  No. mas. Profound- right.
  • I’m going to start the campaign to turn the 101 into a toll road.  I’m positive this will come off as elitist, but this is what happens when you’re stuck in a car for 15 hours a week.  Not only will the city benefit from the major influx of funds from said toll, our “thriving” public transportation will pick up and actually become of use to this city.  Mass transportation seems to work in every other city besides our own, so why not try to make ours, at the very least, half as good as San Francisco’s (pipe dreams….).  Additionally- fewer cars on the freeway, fewer accidents, fewer carbon emissions, less of a need to punch people in the face every time they ask where you commute from…
  • Stereotypes are true.  Take that statement as you will.
  • The lack of windows on a car/truck/van is directly related to the amount of whistles I receive.  Apparently, I give off the “PLEASE do me in your creepy vehicle immediately” vibe.  Still working on that one… (ps- I really just need to know if that has ever worked.  Please, someone just chime in and let me know if you have ever whistled at a girl and she walked over to your car and banged you.  I just, I need closure and to know this actually works for me to understand the whistling phenomenon.)
  • Speaking of banging, can we just get over Chris Brown being the worst human being alive already? I GET IT. He beat our favorite princess up. He’s already the spokesperson for those needing anger management courses, must we hate him forever (for ev ev ever, for ev ev ever…had to, sorry..)???  Sean Penn laid a few fingers on Madonna and his box office sales didn’t fall- hell he’s friends with Venezuela now (ok maybe this isn’t good).  What about Bobby and Whitney (bad example again, Tracy)???  He beat the crap out of Whitney, but New Edition still tours, so I’d assume we got over it.  Or the infamous Ike and Tina?  Ike died revered as one of the best producers of all time and he beat the absolute SHIT out of Tina FOR YEARS!  And lest we forget Mrs. Hilary Clinton.  Yep, good ol Hil use to beat up Bill.  We never really questioned who wore the pants in that relationship, but clearly- we got over it.  Can we all just agree that Chris is kind of a douchebag that makes records I really want to dance to?

Told ya you’d hate me..

Do you know how many times a day I get asked if I have a gun?

Moments ago, our Chief of Compliance walked out of a heated meeting in our Chief of Legal’s office, which just so happens to be right across from my desk.  She slammed her papers on my desk, threw her glasses across the room, and asked if I had a gun.  I forced a chuckle, gave some kind of witty “OHHHHH It’s THAT kind of day” response, and went back to my important Sarah Palin gchat convo with Duke.  A mere 49 seconds later, above mentioned Chief Legal strides out of his office and to my desk- “I just need one bullet, just one.”  Um. Excuse me? REAL SHIT, CORPORATE.  REAL. SHIT.  I understand corporate is brutal, but recently this question has been surfacing more often than “Tracy, where’s the toner?” (same place as it has been since the day we opened up shop folks.  The toner has yet to move.  The toner will never move.  The toner is still in the exact same place as the day you asked a year ago. I still remember this conversation because you then proceeded in asking where the supply room was and I asked if you, as a founding officer of this fine establishment, knew where anything in this office is. You replied with “no”, a hearty laugh, and a swift exit. I digress.) Does corporate really think of guns that often?  Are we thisclose to letting the postal office off the hook and coining “going corporate?”  Do I get a gun too?

Please?

Speaking of firepower, here’s your fun fact of the day:

Operation Glimmer was a code name used to throw off the dirty Germy’s during WW2.

(Thank you again, Howard Stern and Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Glimmer)

Oh glimmer, how you make my world go round….

In continuing with our efforts to keep this blog going and holding the glimmer in any way, shape, or form – I’m going to clear up some confusion.  You see, Duke and I are often asked what exactly it means to “hold the glimmer”.  Most of the time, I respond with “How am I supposed to know?” or “Who the fuck are you anyway?” or “Find your own definition, you bastard devil child!”  This time is different.  I may have an answer and you may have to continue reading to see if this really fleshes out in to a worthy response.  Chances are dimmer than a candle during Chanukah, but let’s hold the glimmer (see what I did there.)

The problem with defining hold the glimmer is that it’s a lot like love- everyone has their own interpretation (my love definition comes from Sleepless in Seattle, yours…unclear (and stay tuned for the next blog on how movies ruined my ideals of love, life, friendship, money, …everything.))

A few years ago, I sat down to a regular Sunday night of catching up on important current events and cultural affairs (read- trash TV) before the monotonous work week.  As I was perusing the options, the remote got jammed and landed me directly in the middle of Lamar and Khloe’s televised nuptials (slight fabrication, I chose to stop where I did.  You see, up to that point, I had yet to watch any Kardashian filth.  These Kardashians run amok throughout my town, live directly across the street from my boss who constantly reminds me of their lavish affairs and camera crews, and have yet to do anything of worth outside of beautifying their family for money and seriously awesome threads.)  As I watched in awe and dismay, I started realizing the Kardashians are what’s wrong with the world (big statement with no follow up.  Sorry.)  You know the saying, “The world is your oyster”?  Well the oysters are running out.  They’re nearly fucking extinct.  And it’s the likes of those Kardashians who are ravenously inhaling them; raw, fried, doused in vinaigrette, whatever… Do we finally understand the oyster comments now?  OK.

So with the idea that the world is your oyster, comes the fact that you actually have to find your oyster.  This is no easy task and I have no advice in how to find said oyster, as I’m currently still figuring this out myself.  You’re reading this blog.  You get where I am in life. From 9-5, it’s not pretty.

You may have to dig through three hundred shredded paper boxes to find one receipt for your bosses refundable car wash, alphabetically organize your said boss’ preferred hotel choices for when he stays in New York, or merely clean 20 coffee cups a day for the shmucks who left them in the sink and “forgot” to rinse them out the day before.  You may get yelled at for stealing toilet paper from the bathrooms because upper management decided they had no interest in further budgeting for your or any of the other two hundred and seventy employees constantly running nose.  These instances are all variables, all events that change from day to day and there is really only one way to handle them: hold the glimmer.

Holding the glimmer is keeping the hope that someday, somehow, somewhere, you will find your oyster.  Some find immediate relief in drinking, be it at the office (I don’t follow the “it’s 5pm somewhere!” rule.  “There’s alcohol somewhere that’s not being consumed” is my rule.) , at a conservative family function when you’re the only one with “liberal” seemingly tattooed to your head, or in your third year of the same class that’s keeping you from your BA.  A cup is a cup after all, and your relationship with what’s in that cup is entirely up to you and the cup.   Maybe your definition of “hold the glimmer” is laughing at old people when they fall.  Falling is funny and age should not be a factor in laughter and entertainment.  I don’t judge. I’m the one making paper clip chains, remember?  Maybe you’re brand new to the entire concept of hold the glimmer, and your idea consists of inhaling expensive cupcakes, listening to Insane Clown Posse, all while reading our blog.  GO CRAZY, you weirdo (but change the fucking station and take off the makeup.  You probably look ridiculous.  Just sayin…).  You do you, and send me a red velvet one if you can.  But in the mean time, whichever way you find most effective- hold the glimmer.  Hold it tight, hold it close, just hold the glimmer.

Below, you will find proof of Duke and I attempting to bar blog.  As he posted before, it was a complete debaucherous mess, ending in aioli on Asians (and multiple other sauces and fried foods), a righteous Friday morning hangover, and no post.   Write a comment, Shoot us an email, “like” our facebook fan page, and follow us on twitter @holdtheglimmer and @DukeHTG….because we have feelings too.

Guess who’s who?

…Goodnight Tracy
 
Welp.  The day of reckoning is upon us. In a mere 24 hours, I will be with Jesus.

Hahahahahahahahaahahah.

 Right. 

That guy wouldn’t pick me out of the “Who’s Going To Heaven” lineup even if it was between me and Charles Manson (Wow.  Shit. Just. Got. Real.)  I mean hell, I’m heading to Vegas this weekend solely to be with the sinners and celebrate our rise to power as all the good kids get dragged away.

-tangent-

Can we talk about how this is actually supposed to happen?  How do two hundred MILLION people miraculously disappear?  Do they all die a plague like death over a span of ninety minutes, getting bit by rats and popping boils?  Does one know they are chosen as they start self suffocating at 6pm (eastern folks, eastern.  That means 3pm pacific.  We good?)  Will chainsaws magically appear in the kitchen of a “chosen one” for their significant other to saw them in to bite sized Jesus baggage? What if all two hundred MILLION are dragged up to the clouds at the same time, while Joan Osborne’s “One of Us” screams through God’s loudspeakers?  I just…I need to know how this is physically happening.

-And, we’re back!

As Duke posted earlier, there will always be regrets.  Every person in my life knows I either hate them or love them (ya, start thinking about that one now..), so I have no regret in not including them in my list below (this is after all MY list.  Shouldn’t I have the final say who and what makes it on?). 

 

  • I never got to quit my job

(“OOOHHHHHHH! BIG regret you pansy ass!”- everyone who just read the first bullet point.)

Ya. I get it.  I’m wasting a spot on the elitist of lists. Seems like the most trivial of regrets to waste on such a noble scroll, but I’ve dreamed of that day for the last two years.  Remember when the “I quit” video of a hot chick with note cards spelling out the reasons she is quitting her job went viral?  All my coworkers gasped, my mom emailed me WHILE watching, begging me not to watch as she was afraid I would follow suit but in a less tasteful manner (she knows me so well..), and my newsfeed on Facebook was aflutter with commentary and reposting.   Personally, tears dropped with every single turn of a card as I was overcome with emotion.  She was so…thoughtful.  So…brave.  She was everything I ever wanted in a two week notice.  Granted, a week later, turns out awesome chick was just a fake (thanks again for crushing the dream that some people really do have balls in this world).  She still inspired me; and in a few days, I will 100% regret not shitting on my bosses desk, grabbing his hidden stash of 18yr scotch, throwing up the deuces, and screaming “fuck you corporate” as I exit the building.

  • I never got to eat a Big Mac

(please call the Un-American police as I have committed a crime….and then see sentiments from bullet point above and apply here as necessary)

I’ve never been a big fan of hamburgers.  As a child, I can remember inhaling hot dogs (literally, not figuratively) at family functions and BBQ’s, while Dad yelled that his burger wasn’t bleeding anymore and he could never eat such tainted meat.  Years later, I would come to find that my hot dog eating abilities would turn in to an obsession with seeing how many Dodger Dogs I could stuff in my purse and sneak out of the “All You Can Eat” section at Dodger Stadium (The record still stands at 22.  This is not a joke).  On the rare occasion my mom allowed her Mercedes to be seen in a drive-thru, I always ordered some form of chicken (yes, form.  I saw the other viral video of an unnamed restaurant mass producing their “nuggets”.  While the unfinished product would induce projectile vomiting from most, I immediately got in my car and drove to the nearest…rhymes with Shmick-Fonalds.  The same thing happened after watching “Super Size Me”.  I’m a marketing and advertiser’s dream.)  Regardless, I’ve heard wonderful things of this sandwich, special sauce and all, and do truly regret never being able to experience the joy that is Big Mac.

  • I never met Howard Stern

Oh, Howard, my hero.  I listen to you daily, religiously even. Your words, your reasoning, your undying devotion to becoming the king of all media have kept me on the edge of my seat during countless morning commutes and road trips. I know there are a multitude of reasons why we never crossed paths.  Mainly, I’m not an actress, porn star, author, tranny, athlete, comedian, game show host, willing to get naked on air or film (for free), but also because I live in Los Angeles.  I ponder what I would actually do standing face to face with my hero, but ultimately know I would stutter for words, pee my pants, and turn around in to a full paced sprint, hoping at the very least that the encounter makes it on his show.

  • I never really released my road rage

Maybe it’s just me (truer words have never been spoken), but every single time I get behind the wheel, it seems every horrible driver was notified via press release to get on the road and find me.  I’ve had my fair share of verbal confrontations (just because the window is up, doesn’t mean you can’t read my FUCK YOU lips).  I may be slightly overzealous with the only sign language I know as you cut me off at my exit on the freeway, but I’ve never stopped the car, stepped out of my vehicle and verbally… (or physically. I’ve been in one physical fight thus far in my life.  It started with ketchup and ended with me waking up in a police station with a fat lip, black eye, and no memory of how I got there. Baller.)… berated the asshole who almost made me spill my coffee.

Of all things I regret, I must admit that not focusing on my writing would top the list.  The poor regret didn’t even get a bullet point….(or a complete sentence…ugh)

So wherever you end up on Saturday, be it Hell, Heaven, or rehab, just know that life is one big regret. You either live or exist; but we all die.  Billy Joel and I can agree on one thing: “I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.  The sinners are much more fun…”

I’ve started playing a few new games at work that are revolutionizing my 8 committed hours to the office.  You have to understand, I work in the epitome of corporate, at the assumed “bottom of the totem pole”, titled CEO’s slave.  It’s a daily lottery of which farm animal my duties will most resemble or which exec decides to skip their therapist for the night and just hang around my desk, complaining about compensation, as if I’m making more than a PE teacher in Wichita.  Finding ways to entertain myself is difficult, especially when the “soul” count is at a very depressing bare minimum and diminishing with every broken copier complaint.  Staying sane becomes the pinnacle of importance and most difficult of tasks, especially when it’s expense report day and not one executive is expecting less than your monthly salary in a single report. 

First, I say “good morning” and “how are you” to every single person I pass on the way to my desk.  Seriously- Every. Single. Person.  This game would be irrelevant if its sole intent was to learn more about the people I work with- of which I promise to have no interest.  Seriously.  I have my clique here, my inner circle of “normals” if you will, and have no interest in further friending from “how are you”.  It’s just too dangerous to stray.  The last thing I need to hear at 8:30am and before my first cup of coffee is how you stayed up until 2am cleaning your daughter’s throw up from witnessing your son’s explosive diarrhea.  What’s your problem asshole? Why would I ever want to know that you were knee deep in kid shit a mere 6 hours ago?  Don’t you know that I can tell the last time you washed your hair, and it wasn’t yesterday; what about those fecal hands?  I’m not interested in breeding and you’re only further scarring me from the thought.   I’m simply buying time, folks, not friends.  Sometimes, people get out on the right side of the bed and acknowledge your existence then respond with their go-to of the day, usually the weather (corporate lives for weather conversations, especially in elevators.  It’s a phenomenon I have yet to understand, but is on my list to conquer before I send out my “FUCK THIS PLACE, YOU SHMUCKS” mass email.)  Most times, a trusty head nod or half grin to symbolize lack of ability to communicate well with others, but still appreciated in my book.    

Now, you should know that my desk sits at the end of a green mile-esque hall (electric death chair and all), right in front of our trusty CEO’s lair.  The location of my desk, and the number of people I pass by in the morning, enables me to spend a solid 27 working minutes before I even press the button to turn on the worlds slowest computer. I’d hate to pull out Charlie Sheen’s last and only form of compensation; but in my book, by 9am, I’m already winning.

If you’re interested in a real time cruncher, try the water game.  Every 18 minutes (more or less depending on who signs your paycheck), get up and get yourself a cup of water.  You deserve it. Take the long way, of course. Not only are you hydrating that numb corporate body, you’ll also be making a new, wonderful, anonymous, full of games friend: the corporate bathroom stalls.  You see, if you’re drinking three cups of water every hour, your bladder has no other option than being holed up in the handicap stall (it’s spacious. There’s a handle bar and a place to put your purse, coffee, laptop…whatever. I feel no guilt in fully appreciating one of the minimal luxuries offered to the handi-CAPABLE.  Besides, I’ve yet to see anyone on the third floor wheeling their ass in here.  Equal opportunity employer? I think not.)  The benefits are countless; a healthier lifestyle, a little exercise, and of course the few minutes of quiet meditation before bossman throws a fit over the temperature of his coffee. 

Another game I suggest, nay, implore you to try is modestly titled the paper clip chain.  I know it sounds slightly above a preschooler’s level of competency, but it’s a wonderful mind occupier.  You’re on an hour long phone call with AT&T regarding the Iphone you DIDN’T drop in the toilet? Make a chain.  You were just asked to make 20 copies of a 200 page presentation due in two hours? Grab yourself a chair by that copy machine and make a chain.  See, it’s not the chain that’s entertaining, it’s the “after chain”.  These chains will give you minor gratification while assembling, but it’s when you hear the “What the FUCK” from the copy machine at 3pm and realize the eighty clip chain you worked on earlier that morning has been found that really gets your endorphins running.  haHA sir! Those paper clips aren’t gonna separate themselves! This game is also an awesome way to see who’s the new scumbag that takes things off your desk while you’re away.  You see, having to detach ONE paper clip from a chain of FIFTY takes time.  This isn’t an easy process and only the most skilled of assistants can unchain a paper clip swiftly.  So, while I’m casually walking back to my death lair after my tenth cup of water before 11am, you’re still untangling my paper clips, and 9 times out of 10 I will catch you.  And then I’m allowed to assume you’re the asshole not shutting the supply room door, or the prick that leaves his dirty forks in the break room sink for some maid (read: me) to clean, or the shithead that “forgot” to refill the paper after making one thousand copies of your MLB fantasy league.  That’s just how it is folks.  I didn’t create the game; I’m just the MVP.


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