Hold the Glimmer

Posts Tagged ‘corporate

(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.

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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?

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.

Are five days enough to let the heat cool off from the Spike Lee/Tyler Perry black-on-blacker race wars?  Speaking of which, I think that bitch Madea snuck into my dresser drawer and replaced all my ties and dress socks with panty hose and a do-it-yourself home weave kit!  Hey, if the mumu fits… no no, fuck that shit, I’ll keep my day job, thanks very much.  It may be hectic and thankless, but it’s dignified – sort of.  Anyway enough about transgendered millionaires, here’s a bitch-fit about you and me…

Look, I get it.  You’re busy at work.  I’m busy too.  I work for one of the biggest defense contractors on the planet.  The team I work with, the shit we do – it represents roughly 9 billion dollars in potential revenue.  So trust me, I am fucking busy.  But, I also have needs.  I get lonely in this tiny office with no windows.  Our understaffed team is made up of a tough skinned little old lady and two over-the-hill programmers.  While they are all friendly and great to work with, they couldn’t understand me on a personal level if their pensions depended on it.  Alright, I’ll be honest, I’m one of those people who needs constant communication with someone… ANYONE… but preferably someone who cares enough to reciprocate my attention.  So when I’m not training stubborn financial experts, testing software modifications, troubleshooting user issues, answering calls and emails, or working one of the many side projects that totally aren’t in my job description – I like to reach out and touch who ever is available, digitally I mean.  I’m talking about my only medium of sanity between the 8 to 5 hours, gchat.  If you’re on it, if I see your name on a daily basis, chances are I’ve asked what you’re wearing at least a few times.  And if you’re cool, you’ve probably lied and described something far more interesting than the bland corporate costume you bedrudgingly threw on that morning.  Maybe it’s kind of sad, but that’s the best entertainment I get all day. 
 
People are different, though.  We all have different schedules, responsibilities and distractions swirling around our heads.  We have diverse needs and communication abilities as well.  So it’s no surprise that there are so many various types of gchatters.  How many, you ask?  Did I take the time to categorize them and compile a list one day while stuck on a teleconference that really had nothing to do with me?   Maybe I did.  And maybe now you have something to read as you multitask between facebooking and pretending to give a shit about your job…
 
The Ghost – I IMed you three hours ago and you still haven’t responded, even though your status never went idle (yeah, I noticed, that’s what it’s there for).  Do you have me on the pay-no-mind list?  Did you die at your desk and your twitching rigormortis-stricken hand just keeps moving the mouse to fool your friends into thinking you’re still alive?  I know, I know, you’re furiously firing off emails and other such banalities that are paramount to your career.  Seriously though, everyone has a few a minutes in their to day to say hi to a friend and see how they’re doing.  In some cultures, that’s how they show they care. 

The Brick Wall – Hi. OK. You? Yeah. Oh. Cool…  I don’t think talking to one of these ice boxes even qualifies as a conversation.  I don’t know a lot of people who are completely bereft of personality – but maybe being at work just sucks it right out of you.  Perhaps you’re really quite interesting and have fascinating stories and opinions in real life, but you’re just illiterate or can’t type well.  No no, I understand.  You’re busy.  If you don’t even have the time to formulate full sentences or share a complete thought, maybe you should cut the bullshit and go handle your business.  I don’t want to tell you how to be a better slave or anything, it’s just an idea.

The Cliffhanger – You could be the greatest storyteller ever, if you could just finish a god damn story.  You escaped from the whore house brawl, stole the cop car, chased by thugs, you jumped from the speeding vehicle, hid in the bushes, then suddenly…. Ten minutes go by, twenty minutes, your name turns idle, you get logged off… What happened?  Did the thugs catch you as you were finishing that sentence?  No warning, no “hey, I’ll be right back, sorry.”  I don’t hear from you again for two days and when I finally do, you don’t even have the decency to finish the story!  In the meantime, I broke three office chairs from hanging on the edge of them for so long.  It’s not just the stories, either.  It happens during just about every conversation we have online.  They never end, you just disappear as if we weren’t even talking.  Imagine if we were having a discussion in person, and right as you were about to make a point, I turned around and walked away…

The Emo Queen – God, life is SO hard, isn’t it?  Shit, I pat myself on the back just for getting out of bed in the morning.  But once I’m caffeinated and showered, I lose the morose attitude and brighten up quite a bit.  After all, it’s just life – no big deal.  Then I get an IM that goes something like, “Kill me pleeaaaase, my mom said my green shirt is uglyyyyy.  I want to dieeee.”  Wow.  Relax, sweetheart.  Don’t kill yourself just because your mom is a shallow bitch and you have no taste… my mom points out that I’m losing my hair all the time.  You want to know why I’m losing it?  Because of her.  That’s no reason to cry.  Check my wrists – no scars, Ma!  So get over yourself, throw a sweater over that tragedy, and make your mom happy for a change.  Try doing it with a smile – it’s easier than you’re making it.

Tracy- The Perfect Gchatter (she put me up to it, I swear) – How am I?  Well besides choking on my tea from disbelief, I’m great!  Thanks for taking the time to ask.  Oh and you have an interesting anecdote, follow up commentary, and a warm, positive outlook?  Holy cow, it’s almost like there’s a human being on the other end of this electric window!  Perfect gchatter, I know your name isn’t always Tracy, but I am always happy to hear from you.  Hell I might even stop what I was doing just to say I miss you and make plans to hang out.  Then, when all that show of emotion is done, we’ll actually bid each other farewell before getting back to the insanity of corporate life.  I’ll do it with a smile on my face, because my day has just been MADE – you can bet your sweet ass on that.
 
I could go on for days, I’m sure.  But in the interest of time and space, I’ll wrap this up.  Let’s be real, nobody is perfect.  We’re all different.  I’m guilty of being all those characters at some point or another (and so is Tracy, but don’t tell her I said so).  My only goal here is to poke fun and make people aware of how they come across when they’re click clacking with their buddies.  Next time you’re escaping the monotony of your work day, just remember that’s a real live person you’re talking to – probably a friend.  So act like it.  lol. omg. asl? gtfohwts.

I took two ritalin this morning at work.  I find that it’s imperative to keep all 4 of my readers graphicly up to date with my lack of stable mental health due to my wonderfully corporate job, but at this point in my adventure we’ll call life; I’m two broken coffee mugs away from huffing computer cleaner in the supply closet with the accountants. And boy do I hate those accountants…

I’ve been researching Stockholm syndrome lately and have come to the conclusion that if and when the hostage crisis occurs, I would willingly pick up a gun and join their ranks, a la Patty Hearst.  One would argue this idea drastic; while I will adamantly argue you’ve never been a part of my chosen world: corporate. 

 There was a time I wore flowers in my hair, danced ‘til 5am on a Wednesday morning, drove to Vegas on a whim to place bets on the Superbowl; the general, laissez-faire, “20 something” lifestyle now known as genuine happiness.   7-11 for dinner? Ok!  All day “True Life” marathon on MTV? I’ve got popcorn and Snuggies! Recreating “Sex and The City” season four with your newly found childhood box of legos?  Sign me up!

Well, the flowers have died, I’m in bed by 10 on any given weeknight (fuck it- a lot of weekends too), and I’ve forgotten the warmth of the glittering Vegas skyline.  My Iphone is an appendage grown from fear; no longer used solely to face-stalk, but merely another portal into my soul sucking responsibilities of “assistant.”

I sold out to a promise of stability, responsibility, growth, and to even further depress you; stock options.  Yep, I am that girl.  Miss Sell-out.

I had every single intention of being the poster girl for “New Corporate” lifestyle when I signed my life away that fateful September day. I remember the phone call with my Dad ending in those five words all children crave to hear from their parents, “I am proud of you.” I remember that same day shopping trip with my beaming mom buying not only my “first day of real job outfit” that would “impress all of those important executives,” but also an entire new wardrobe consisting of my least favorite color- black. I bit my tongue.  I smiled and made the decision to try something new with a positive attitude, even if it meant not being able to wear glitter. They were proud and downright happy and DAMMIT; I was determined to keep them that way.  Maybe corporate wouldn’t be that bad?

HAAhahAHAHAHAhahahhahHAHaHAHAHAHAHHAHAhahAHHAHA

*sigh*

Wrong.

Hey Mom, guess who gets to scrub the carpet on her hands and knees with paper towels after her bosses coffee tantrums?  Hey Dad, guess who’s back in therapy and is still called Stacey after 2 LONG years of employment?  Hey world, guess who isn’t allowed to leave her desk for more than 16 seconds at any given time, solely in fear of the guaranteed verbal berating if a single telemarketer hits the boss man’s voicemail?  “Good mornings” are a thing of the past.  Apparently, the more people you try to humanize in the office with basic conversation not related to weather or office temperature, the more likely you’re deemed “eccentric”.

And forget eye contact; even in your clumsy stupor of tripping over your bosses printer chords during an investment committee meeting warrants a loud sigh from all 8 men at King Arthurs Table, but no eye contact.  You can feel your knees bleeding, the slight chance of an ego you had sorely exaggerated for the last 9 months is officially extinct, and the twenty minute morning debate over “thong” or “granny panties” under your new, transparent black tights is no longer relevant; they can all see your ass and you are not allowed to cry.  Not this time.  There is no crying in corporate.  Save that for the 4th floor bathroom stalls.

I’d love to continue on, really I would.  But I promised myself I would start posting on a regular basis.  And if that’s going to happen, I cannot spend three months thinking of how to finish a 10 paragraph blog post.  Glimmer- held.


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