I was told by a friend that maybe it was the cresent moon that could be blamed for all the rediculousness abounding.
Whatever it is, it feels a lot like the cosmic jokes are adding a bit of satire or cynicism or prankster to the normal repetua (or however the fuck you spell that word).
Case in point:
1) I have a timeline for how my week, day, and hour should go for the new job. When I walk in I have certain things to get done. Every week certain things need to get done with varying priority (read:they can be moved and postponed when higher profile/more pressing issues come around). Every morning and every lunch time I make a list of things to get done.
To have the same things roll over PISSES.ME.OFF. This is the same part of the brain that threw a fit when I had to leave stuff in my inbox. I have created a folder of stuff that needs attention ASAP and I have stuff in there from yesterday.
The joke: I am having absolutely no spaz response to the stress, workload, emergencies, building stack of pressing matters, or the fact that some of the stuff I wanted to get done Tuesday is still waiting for the high priority stuff to get done.
On the one hand I am freaking out that I'm not freaking out.
On the other - I found a sushi place around the corner that BBQs their beef in onions and mushrooms and leaves the teriaki for the chicken. YUM. And if I so desire for a dinner to go box, they can add a Sapporo to the order. YEAH!!!
2) After the WTF with the roomie in the bathroom this week (did I tell ya'll about that?? "how many peoples shit do I have to scrub from my toilet now?" falling out of my mouth 14 seconds after waking up?? I forgot - anyway, I FREAKED about my territory being taken over by one of the DownStairs Girls and TRIED MY DAMNEDEST not to beat someone with freshly applied mascara), I have Squeeky all up in my How Can You Think This Is A Way To Function nerve center.
I come home to find both sides of the sink full and both sides of the counter taking over the overflow. Stuff with milk rotting in the bottom. A greasy pan that was left to soak now has grease covered silverware and plates and cup bottoms to leave its slimy mark on. Glasses under three full sized plates. UNREAL to me.
Then I see that the dishwasher has the CLEAN magnet on it. OK. They are using the magnets. After 4 months, we can read the sign before acting. But HELLO!!!!! We can't use the sink!!!! Whoever runs the machine should understand they can empty it by now.
I open the door to find the top shelf with 8 of the possible 20 spots filled. The bottom has 3 big peices and 4 plates. Apparently someone just didn't want to put soap on the rag when they rinsed and ran the energy sucking, water wasting, heat producing, noisy fuckin lazy mans pretentious machine when they cooked.
So, in my gym clothes, mostly dry from sweat by now, and leaving my shoes on for the productivity of it all, I clean the kitchen. It takes me THREE MINUTES to unload the dishwasher, INCLUDING rearranging the shelves to make these few items fit. Somehow matching nesting bowls is WAY too fucking complicated for these folks and each bowl needs to be sitting in its own place in our tiny overstuffed cupboards.
I am thinking the entire time that I will put my hand on something I used, but HELL NO. I am putting away a stack of dishes I didn't use.
If we didn't just, two weeks ago, have the "well if everyone does their own dishes, there won't be a problem" talk...
B R E A T H I N G. I resolve that I will not get icked out and turn the water to scalding and start rinsing the crap off the sides of the stuff in the sink to load the dishwasher.
Thats right. I could have put soap on the rag and washed them as I put them in... but I was struck again with the fucking HILARIOUS joke that I am doing dishes for a house I haven't been in enough to dirty even a fork in - TWO WEEKS after we agreed that this BULLSHIT shouldn't be happening to anyone.
I get the diswasher loaded.
I am scrubbing the grease and lettuce and smears of I don't know what off the inside of the sink when I hear Squeeky's door open. She squeezes her bony ass between me and the cupboard fora a glass. She walks to the other side of me, ALL up in my space, and reaches her glass over my arm. She, in a finally normal speaking voice, says "I'm just gonna grab a glass of water here."
I stand perfectly still, look at her hand in amazed disbelief, and mutter "its kinda hot."
She proceeds to lean in further to up the chilled side and down the hot side and eeks out "sorry, this is totally in the way of like the cleaning you are doing ::snorty sigh:: sorry, I'm just gonna, yeah, ok, almost done here. OK, and I'll put the hot water back on for you here, OK, I'm done."
Two examples of the FEROCIOUS temper that may or may not be working itself into my daily grind. I can't get a DAMNED thing done all day, and come home to complete ANYTHING, no matter how much I hate it on principle (THIS is how much I can't stand a filthy kitchen people!!!), I can't even get THAT done without being interupted by RETARDEDNESS!!!
Its TAP WATER you fucking inconsiderate selfish single track minded freak!! Use the bathroom if someone is cleaning your mess for you and the 37 seconds it might take for them to finish is TOO MUCH for your parched saggn flatttttttt ass!!!!!
Laurie at Beauty and the Beer said she was missing some of her Shank Tuesday Mojo.
I am thinking, if this Cresent Moon/Should only be Aunt Flo to make this much of a bitch out of me/Cosmic Jokester turning Punk Ass on me/where the fuck is this heat wave coming from if I was fogged in at work for the last 3 hours BULLSHIT of a shitty attitude keeps up, she can consult me for material ;)
To put it sucsinctly: I am in such a weird funky out of touch cranky surreal shell of reality mood lately that I flat out turned down a booty call this week.
Logically I am creating standards for myself.
Realistically I was sure I'd be disappointed and didn't think it was worth changing a razor blade for.
TGIF folks... If I had more than 8 more hours of this crap thrown my way before I could duck from in it a drunken haze, well, I might start phasing the bar up the street into my weekly schedule. I'm just say'n.
The random thoughts of a young urban professional on display for my sanity in the midst of a world of grey.
Surprisingly Still Accurate
- Miss Sassy
- A mid twenties suburbanite in a corporate job finding even the cubicle fasteners can be a muse for an intelect seeking amusement. You'll find here what spills out when I give in to the impulse to think.
To Inspire...
- 33 (More) Days
- A Beer Sort of Blog
- AmandaRamaRama
- Blogaritaville
- Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper
- BoySpoke
- Captain and Coke with a Lime
- Curmudgeonisms
- Cute Overload
- GirlSpoke
- Go Fug Yourself
- I Found Your Camera
- Lightning Bug's Butt
- Overworked and Underf*cked
- Motherhood is Hell...
- Overheard in New York
- Overheard in San Fransisco
- Post Secret
- Twenty Somethings
- The Pissed Kitty Cometh
5 comments:
So she reached over you, got in the way, while you were cleaning up NOT your mess, not to mention didn't happen to volunteer to help, and you didn't throw her bass-ackwards out the door?
You're being waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy to "kick me".
Okay. 15 years ago, I would have raged right along with you. But you know what I think now with a husband, four dogs and three kids?
I think your roomies are just toughening your skin for having a family.
Because nobody screws you over like your husband, pets and kids, let me tell ya.
I am a neatnik and I LOVE things clean. I don't think my house has EVER been clean since taking on Tom and/or Lucy. And it goes downhill with each one.
Like when Abby slid off the toilet after a particularly interesting poop and I went in a couple hours later and found the huge dried skidmark on the toilet seat. And how Tom never takes a little bit of TP and wipes the rim of the bowl under the seat.
Or how the kids spit toothpaste in a spray pattern that hardens like mortar in the sink and all over the chrome faucet.
And that's only the bathroom.
I have to sweep the floors twice a day, or the shedded hairballs will eat the children, and how would I explain that to the authorities?
Or, how the girls constantly drip circles of juice on my couch and chair (if any of you are going to make some snotty remark about just having the kids drink juice at the dining room table, stop it. You either don't have kids or you were a much more energetic enforcer of rules than I). But the juice is covered by dog hair, that I sweep off twice a day, anyhow, so no matter.
Laundry and dishes? If I don't do it, honey, it don't get done.
And here's the kicker. I do all of this stuff all of the time. BUT, if they do it ONCE it's a special occasion and gushing, repeated thank-you's are in order or else I've taken THEM for granted!
I feel that speaking up is in order against your roomies to help train them, but I gotta tell ya, cosmically, you're just beginning to clean up messes that ain't yours.
Now don't think of this as being argumentative Mom, but that's the difference between kids and adults. Kids don't - or at least they aren't expected to - know any better. They're kids! They hopefully, will eventually learn. Either that or they'll turn out to be lazy, selfish roommates.
I'm just saying that adults should know better. They shouldn't be allowed to get away with messes kids and dogs can.
Passed up a bootie call, good training for the husband, some who can cook and clean up, and some who can't, won't, or simply don't. Naturally, going for full disclosure, the same can be said for some wives, witness the roomies. Theredore, you deal with what you get and remember why you picked them. thankyouverymuch.
Woman. I miss you.
That is all.
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