If Spongebob Worked In An Office (ok, my office)

When you've been bored out of your mind for the past six hours, with nobody even asking you for so much as a photocopy, and are approached at 4:55 p.m. with something that needs to be done immediately:

When somebody is coughing and sneezing and really should just go the hell home already:

When the email comes in that _____________ (insert name from above), will be out sick today:

When you've spent the past three hours copying and pasting text from a PDF into a Word document and fixing all the words that came over like this:  I !0\/e My j0b..`\  And you are finally finished:

Only to have them tell you, "Never mind, we didn't actually need that."

And then later, when the initial rage has passed and you realize that yes, this is really your career:

When you've worked here for 10 years and somebody asks you, in all seriousness, if you know how to fax/fed ex/scan something:

The few seconds after someone with an absolutely ridiculous name calls in and you're debating how in the hell you're going to announce it over the PA system:

     

And that moment when you realize it's 5:00 on a Friday (even if we don't get Columbus Day off):

See ya. 

Tikker Life Countdown Watch

As if it's not bad enough wasting 8 hours a day sitting in a cubicle, imagine doing it with one of these babies from Sky Mall strapped to your wrist:

Terrific!  Sure it's good to live life and make the most of the time that we have - I just don't think having the equivalent of a bandana-wearing-twenty-three-year-old-backpacker constantly shouting"YOLO!" in my face is the best way to go about it.  Also, I can't see that it's good to, like, constantly think about the minutes of your life ticking away.  They make medication for that kind of behavior.  And I mean, if you're getting shit done just so you can cross it off a list before you croak, and you're less than ninety-two years old and not in possession of a terminal illness, that's pretty morbid.  Imagine the anxiety. 

Imagine doing the dishes or the laundry with one of these things on?  I'm not talking about getting it wet either.  I'm talking about the thoughts that it will cause to run through your head: 

HOW ARE THERE THIS MANY PLATES DON'T THEY KNOW I ONLY HAVE 54 MORE YEARS I SHOULD BE ON A PLANE TO EVEREST WHAT DO YOU MEAN CAN I BRING YOU A JUICE BOX WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE I NEED TO SEE THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA RIGHT NOW WHERE IS MY BANDANA AND MY BOB MARLEY CD OH MY GOD I HAVE TO IRON TOO ARE YOU KIDDING ME I NEED TO LEARN HOW TO SPEAK SIX MORE LANGUAGES OH NO THERE GOES TWENTY MORE SECONDS

This watch might actually make you kill yourself.  The funny thing is that the free spirits taking selfies in front of Big Ben aren't wearing this damn thing.  No it's going to be on the wrist of some sap trapped in a cubicle.  Because if the sap trapped in his cubicle had the means and the freedom to do all of that YOLO kind of crap, he would already be doing it.  Trust me, we would all be doing it.

And maybe one should get shit done because it feels good to get shit done, and not because one is in a weirdo, self-inflicted, anxiety-inducing, race against the clock. You will literally have a clock. On your wrist. Calculating when you're going to die.

That sounds fun.

Can't wait til Christmas, Sky Mall.  Hope you've got a good return policy.

And you thought swimsuit season was rough...

Well it’s almost that time of year again - time for the stores to start selling skimpy, role-playing, lingerie outfits under the guise of being Halloween costumes. Time to tack the word sexy in front of even the most un-sexy of concepts in order to sell shitty costumes to women with low self-esteem: Sexy Ice Cream Truck Driver, Sexy Big Bird, and my personal favorite of the day, Sexy Ursula:

I’m sorry, Sassy Ursula. Now, in case you forgot, here is what Ursula actually looks like:

Ursula, according to Wikipedia, is an “obese, lavender-skinned, white-haired female human with a facial mole, but from the waist down she has six black tentacles."

Well I’ll be. I always said that if ever there was a character destined to become a slutted-up Halloween costume, it was Ursula the half human/half octopus sea witch from the Little Mermaid. No doubt.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying we should all dress up like this:

Or this:

Even though those are totally lovely costumes.  And okay fine, this one isn’t too terrible, aside from the poor choice of shoes.  You're a Ninja Turtle for Christ sake, save the black pumps for the Naughty Secretaries.  A thigh-high brown suede boot would have been a better choice:

But then we have the likes of this:

And this:

Googling the words “sexy Halloween costume” simply takes you to lingerie sites that have slapped a “halloween” tag onto all of their usual inventory. The above picture I found on a site called “Forplay."  Cute.  Nothing says Halloween party like bobbing for apples and gratuitous nipple exposure.

I also found this:

Notice the clever placement of the trident.  I'm willing to bet this little number is available in crotchless.

Look, I know I'm 35 years old, live in the suburbs, and on Halloween night wear a black Columbia fleece and a pair of Sketchers that I've had since, literally, 1997.  But where in bloody hell are other people wearing these costumes?  If you count up all the websites selling these things, there have got to be millions of these costumes taking up space on planet Earth, all in those cheap plastic bags with the snaps.  But there can't possibly be that big of a market for them. I've been to Halloween parties, even when I was younger, and people just don't show up in this shit.  Frat parties?  Probably.  Smart idea, by the way.  Beverly Hills?  Yeah I can see that.  That gross older couple down the street who you've always suspected were swingers?  Most likely.

Anyway, moving on to my next point.  Why do women’s Halloween costumes MAKE NO FUCKING SENSE?

Take this one:

Your classic Sexy Eskimo.  A total idiot.  You know what keeps you warm in the North Pole, ladies? Pants. And not being in a perpetual state of about to suggestively lick a popsicle.  Want to see a man's eskimo costume?  Here:

He's holding a dead fish.  And he's covered head to toe like, you know, he has a brain. Let's try this again.  Women's firefighter costume:

Looks like it's got a good thermal layer.  Those fishnets should hold up well in the event of a backdraft.  And here we have a man's firefighter costume:

Ah, what does it matter.  I have one child and he's a boy.  Speaking of him, a few years ago he dressed up like Nemo.  You know, the fish with one big fin and one small fin, and a tail and all that.  

Oh, yes, here it is:

Crap, that's not right. 

Anyway.  Here's a woman's Luigi costume:

And a man's:

Sigh.   Granted, not many women would want to go out in public wearing those overalls, but how does that translate to Luigi donning a pair of thigh-high white stockings?  This is what he thinks of that:

Me too, Luigi.  Me too.

Mama Watch This

Dear Children Ages 4-6:

Below please find a guide to when it is appropriate, and when it is not appropriate, to yell "Mama, Watch This!"

1.  Mama, watch this!  I can hit a balloon into the air.

Not appropriate.  

2.  Mama, watch this!  I solved the Rubik's Cube!

Appropriate.

3.  Mama, watch this!  I can waddle like a duck.

Not appropriate.  Seriously, I'm trying to do the dishes.

4.  Mama, watch this!  I'm juggling the cats.

Appropriate.  Now let me try.

5.  Mama, watch this!  I can slowly turn around in a circle.

Not appropriate.  There is no way I'm stopping what I'm doing to watch that.

6.  Mama, watch this!  I can look up at the ceiling.

Not appropriate.  Come on.  Why is that even a thing?

7.  Mama, watch this!  I contacted Grandma's ghost using the Ouija board.

Not appropriate.

8.  Mama, watch this!  I'm on the roof!

Appropriate.   And I probably should have been watching you earlier.

9.  Mama, watch this!  I'm clapping my hands.

Not appropriate.   What are you, an infant?

10.  Mama, watch this!  I'm reading your blog posts.

Fuck.

Study Reveals That Yes, This Is What It's All About, Sorry

A ten year study, conducted by a local administrative assistant, has concluded that yes, this is what life is all about.  Filing and typing and answering the telephone.  This is as good as it's going to get for you.  Sorry.

The administrative assistant in charge of the study followed her own career over the course of a ten year period, making detailed case notes on social media such as "Can't they order their own fucking sandwiches?" and "WHAT IS THAT SMELL?? #cubiclessuck".  The administrative assistant dedicated every waking moment of her life to the study, except for weekends when she completely forgot that the study existed.  But then Monday came along and goddammit, the study started again.

While initial findings and inspirational Facebook memes indicated that there was still a sliver of hope, by the end of the ten year period it was clear that no, this is pretty much it.  Printing labels and sticking them onto file folders one hundred times in a row is the reason that you were given the gift of life and born into this world, so you'd better just get used to it.

As a control group, the administrative assistant studied the careers of several friends who did not enter into the field of administrative support.  Such friends include Lisa, who thinks she's special just because she became a lawyer, Mark, who thinks he's cool just because he became a player for the NBA, and Tara who thinks she's hot shit because she plays the violin for an orchestra in Vienna.

Vienna!

Preliminary results indicated that you shouldn't have even bothered going to college, while by the end of the ten year period it was confirmed that yes, college was a total waste of your parent's money.  Further research also found that when you want something, all of the universe conspires in helping you achieve it, except in your case.  Just forget it.  I mean, it's been ten years. 

Complete results of the study may be found on the administrative assistant's Facebook newsfeed, Blogger page, and within several thousand emails to her administrative coworkers who used to be content in their careers but have since concluded that shit, she's right. 

How We're Celebrating Independence Day Week At The Office

*Complete financial dependence on corporation.

*Timesheets due July 3rd.

*Halfhearted "Happy Fourth!" to jerkoffs leaving office at 2:00 p.m. on July 2nd.

*Contemplating alternate world where United States never gained independence from England, and how fulfilling and cool our alternate British careers probably would have been.

*Increase in white paper, red and blue pen use.

*Delighting coworkers by performing Stars & Stripes Forever cymbal crashes at random moments throughout week.

*Hot dog eating contest alone in car, just like last Wednesday.

*Setting off Roman Candle.  Somewhere.  You'll see.

"His thoughts became gloomy again.  All this was very far removed from the life to which he had looked forward.  There are some people who take naturally to a life of commerce.  Mike was not of these.  To him the restraint of the business was irksome.  He had been used to an open-air life, and a life, in its way, of excitement.  He gathered that he would not be free till five o'clock, and that on the following day he would come at ten and go at five, and the same every day, except Saturdays and Sundays, all the year round, with a ten days' holiday.  The monotony of the prospect appalled him.  He was not old enough to know what a narcotic is Habit, and that one can become attached to and interested in the most unpromising jobs.  He worked away dismally at his letters till he had finished them.  Then there was nothing to do except sit and wait for more."

Monday Morning Wodehouse

"Master Maloney was no early bird.  Larks who rose in his neighborhood, rose alone.  He did not get up with them.  He was supposed to be at the office at nine o'clock.  It was a point of honor with him, a sort of daily declaration of independence, never to put in an appearance before nine-thirty.  On this particular morning he was punctual to the minute, or half an hour late, whichever way you choose to look at it."

The Great Outdoors

My four year old son is not an outdoor person. This works out smashingly because a) we moved from a condo to a house so that we could have a backyard, and b) my husband spends 6,000 hours a month cutting the grass.

I’m not an outdoor person either, especially not when we have moths like this one hanging out at the front door, big enough to sell me a set of encyclopedias:

And also this guy, hanging out around back waiting to slit my throat:

No, I can’t say that I blame him. Bugs are icky and having to slather on sunscreen is the absolute worst (drinkable sunscreen anyone?) But the weather is finally nice, we dropped a load of cash on this place, and there’s that thing I mentioned earlier about my husband not having dismounted the riding mower since 2012. SO WE KIND OF HAVE TO USE THE YARD. Life isn’t fair, kiddo.

Out we go into the yard with a selection of bats, balls, gardening equipment, Velcro catchy things, bubbles, plastic lawnmowers, watering cans, gardening gloves, and assorted other crap that has a picture of Lightning McQueen on it because, let's face it, everything has a picture of Lightning McQueen on it - and it's only going to get worse with the upcoming release of Cars 3.

“What do you want to do first?” I ask, picturing him leaping gleefully across the lawn, the dog that we will never have because I hate dogs, chasing joyfully behind. It’s a beautiful image.

“I don’t WANT to play outside!” he declares. He collapses onto his knees, then, upon realizing that he has collapsed into grass that has bugs in it, springs to his feet and runs around in circles squealing.

“But it’s so nice outside. Do you want to play in your sandbox?” I point to the sandbox that my husband spent a month building and is now the storage area for lawn chairs when he cuts the grass.

"I want to go inside."

"What did we even buy this house for?"

"What?"

"Never mind."

Eventually, after a thorough application of bug spray, he will relent and agree to play some baseball.  This is until, by some fluke of physics, I happen to hit the ball clear across the yard.  

"How come I'M not as good as mummy?"

(Seriously, he thinks I'm good at sports.)

"I'm not good, I just got lucky.  You can do it too, you just have to keep practicing."

"I want to go inside."

"We're not going inside yet."

Baseball is over.  Child goes over to a ceramic turtle, lifts it up, and releases about fifty gazillion ants in close proximity to his feet.  Somehow he's totally okay with this.  We all stand around for a while watching the ceramic turtle become engulfed in tiny black moving dots.  It's rather peaceful.

Wait, what's that sound?

"BEE!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I'll let you decide if it was me, my husband, or my son, that just screamed and ran full speed through the wall of our house like Wylie Coyote.

It doesn't matter.  We're inside now.

Sleeping In

He knocks on the bedroom door at 6:45 a.m., climbs into bed, slides his arm under my neck, and pulls me in so that our cheeks are squashed together.  “I didn’t need to bring Lamby,” says the little voice.  “I have you.”  Lamby being his favorite stuffed animal, this is quite an honor.  We lay there in peace for several seconds.   This is nice.  Maybe we’ll both fall back asleep until 9:00 a.m.

There’s a foot in my stomach.  The little voice can no longer stand the silence and begins to ask questions.  It begins to form hypotheses.  If it’s light outside, shouldn’t we be getting up?  Why aren’t we getting up if it’s light outside?  The conversation abruptly turns to trail mix.  They made some at school.  Ingredients are listed.  More questions are raised.  There were pretzels in the trail mix, but there were also pretzels in another bowl.  Why?  Why is this?  I MUST KNOW THIS RIGHT NOW.

I don’t know.  I’m sorry.  I’m starting to get a crick in my neck.  I roll over, check the time.  6:49.  The sight of one of my eyelids popping open has set off alarm bells in his head. 

HOLY SHIT IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP WE NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS BED RIGHT NOW OR WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIEEEEEEEEE

“Can we have pancakes?”  he asks.  Now he’s sitting up.  There is zero chance that he'll lay back down again.  Maybe not ever. 

“Not today, buddy," I say.  "We’re going to a birthday party and you’re going to have a lot of cake and stuff.”

“Why can’t we have pancakes?”

“I just told you.”

Almost imperceptibly, the little head starts to rotate.   Weekends are nothing but a slow descent into The Exorcist.

“CAN WE GET UP NOW?” 

“Okay, okay.  I have to go to the bathroom though.”  I take my phone into the bathroom and sit on the toilet.  I read some Facebook and try to get my eyes to open all the way.

BANG BANG BANG

“Mummy?!”

“On the toilet.”

BANG BANG BANG

“ON THE TOILET.”

BANG BANG BANG

'WHAT?"

“I need water.”

The doorknob starts to jiggle.   I wouldn't be all that surprised if he flattened himself out and slid under the door, like Judge Doom after he got steamrolled.  I let him in.  He gets some water.  We head out into the hall. 

"Let's go downstairs, buddy.  I have to feed the cats."  

He collapses to his knees.  "I don't WANT to feed the cats." 

"Okay.  I didn't ask you to." 

>>Insert screeching pig squeal sound here<<

  

"What? What's the matter?"

"I WANT to feed the cats."

"Okay, go ahead then."

"NOOOO!!!"

I stare in wide-eyed silence at what I can only describe as Gollum, hunched up on the floor, arguing back and forth with himself.



Except instead of arguing about whether or not he should kill Frodo and take back his Precious, he's arguing about whether or not he wants to feed the cats.  Or whether or not he wants his socks on.  Or whether or not he wants a hug.  This type of weirdness carries on over the course of the day.  It's only a matter of time before the pea soup projectile vomit starts flying.  But until then, I will assume this to be normal four year old behavior. 

I check the time.  7:02. 

It's going to be a long weekend.

Lessons Learned from a Day at the Mall

I will never have so many children that my family needs to form a human chain while walking through Macy's.

If there is one thing I enjoy less than other people's children, it is other children's parents.  I have a pretty strong aversion to Mom Voice:

"Do you think that was a good choice that you made? We need to absolutely make a better choice next time."  

God.  You know what really wasn't a good choice?  Saying those fucking words.  Maybe the fact that I don't have a Mom Voice is why my kid doesn't listen to half the stuff I say.  Whatever.  Totally worth it. 

If I am ever invited out by a pack of moms whose day will at some point include carrying around fifteen American Girl shopping bags, you guys can just go on without me.

If I ever have a 12 year old daughter, she will most definitely not wear her cheerleading half shirt in public.  Especially when public includes the guy with this mustache who works at the Lego store:

If my butt ever increases tenfold, I will not wear horizontally striped stretch pants. Let's just go ahead and say that I will never wear horizontally striped stretch pants under any circumstances.  That's a promise we can all feel good about.

I will not be caught dead pushing a double decker fire engine rental stroller.  As if the supermarket ones weren't clunky enough, just try fitting one of these into any store other than Sears.  Oh wait, that's the only store you're going into anyway. 

Listen up old ladies.  There are plenty of stores for older women who want to dress stylishly:  Ann Taylor, Talbots, Macy's.  Here are some stores you should not shop at:  Wet Seal, Forever 21, BeBe, that kiosk with the hair extensions.  I tell you this because I too will be an old lady someday, and I don't want to be the cause of any young man jumping out of his skin when the backside he's been checking out turns around and has my 80 year old face attached to it.  

Cozy Coupe Carts

Once you have kids, there are a few things that you wish had never been invented:  

1)  Stuffed animal claw machines

2)  Food with cartoon characters on it

3)  Arcades

4)  Drugs

5)  These: 

The above is an average sized one from the grocery store, which is bad enough.  Over at Lowes they have these seven foot long blue race cars that weigh about 400 lbs empty, never mind after you load it with your child, chainsaws, sledgehammers and whatever else I think people buy at home improvement stores.  God help anybody that gets in your way when you're navigating around corners - it's like you're steering the back end of a fire engine.

I have occasionally pushed my son around in one of these at Stop & Shop, and I have occasionally ended up jammed in the checkout lane.  Seriously, THEY DON'T FIT THRU THE CHECKOUT LANE.

This was me:

"Oh you just have to back it in," said the cashier after I was already hopelessly fucking stuck.  Thanks for the tip.  I basically destroyed the gum and candy rack, as well as a display of beef jerky, trying to unjam myself.  Finally I backed it in.  Okay, now what?  Frontwards or backwards, I'm still trapped at the back of the cart and can't reach my groceries because there's a CHILD'S OUTDOOR TOY CAR blocking access to the front.  Am I going to need to ask my kid to get out of the Coupe, climb up onto the roof, and hand me each item?  Is that what they want me to do? 

I obviously can't reach the stuff by squeezing around the sides, because to do that I would need to have the body mass of a paper doll.  Do we not live in a society where half of the population is obese?  What are all the other mothers doing?  Maybe I'm doing something wrong.  Maybe there's an Eject button that I don't know about, and you press it and the Cozy Coupe detaches and your kid just drives away and meets you out in the parking lot.  Otherwise, I just don't understand it.  

Does anyone else detest these things as much as I do? 

How We're Celebrating Valentine's Day At The Office

1.  Romantic working lunch for seven.

2.  Leaving pair of pink furry handcuffs for each of the secretaries.

3.  Hating anybody who gets flowers delivered.

4.  Checking if flower delivery guy has plans for tonight. 

5. Serving up a bowl of Corporate Jargon Conversation Hearts.

6.  Waiting on top of photocopier with long-stemmed rose between our teeth. 

7.  Waiting in backseat of office crush's car with box of chocolates and ski mask. 

8.  Consoling best friend in ladies room. 

9.  Wearing this to staff meeting:

Under this:

10.  Signing off all emails with excerpt from Gustave Flaubert's 1846 love letter to his wife:

I will cover you with love when next I see you, 

with caresses, with ecstasy.

I want to gorge you with all the joys of the flesh, 

so that you faint and die.

Advertising Awfulness

Thanks to both my Friday night viewing of Pretty Woman on the Oxygen channel, and the approach of Valentine's Day, I've been overwhelmed by some seriously annoying women-centered advertisements lately.



"I always eat it all…just not all at once" says the voiceover.  So here we have this skinny woman eating what I imagine to be a mustard and lettuce sandwich alongside her 32 oz cup of Crystal Light.  After giving it a few seconds of thought - IF I DON'T EAT MORE I'M GOING TO PASS OUT IN FRONT OF THIS FOOD TRUCK - she closes the lid and decides to take the second half home for later.  Seriously?  The sandwich wasn't even that big, never mind that there weren't any chips or fries or pickles anywhere to be seen.  So we're teaching women to feel guilty if the don't split a 300 calorie sandwich between two meals?  I'm not Bob Harper or anything, but I don't think this is healthy advice even if you are 700 lbs.  AND THIS WOMAN ISN'T EVEN REMOTELY FAT.  Thanks Crystal Light.  I bet that giant glass of aspartame that you're encouraging us to sip on all afternoon is way healthier than a few extra slices of turkey.  #Tinywin!



"My routine?  Gym.  Coffee.  HauteLook."   Fuck off.  You want to know my routine?  It involves going to work.  You know, that mysterious place your husband goes to while you're sitting around in yoga pants ordering crap off the Internet?  Who would produce this commercial and not think for a minute "Hey, this might fill people with blinding rage."  It's not like this is what this woman does on a Sunday.  No, it's EVERYDAY.  It's her ROUTINE.  Monday was full of "must haves" and Tuesday was about "changing up his look."  God your husband must hate you.  "I know that my day hasn't really started until I've gone to HauteLook."  YES, THAT'S CALLED A SHOPPING ADDICTION.  You're filling your house up with stuff in order to fill some void in your life.  You know it, I know it, the UPS guy knows it.  And what exactly do you do with the rest of your day, once you've exhausted HauteLook?  Volunteer at the nursing home wiping old people's butts?  Or head on over to Amazon?  I thought so.

Then there was this cute little Pandora ad:

"You love that he loves you.  Now love what he gives you." 

Can't wait to see what he gives you when he figures out a Pandora bracelet, plus fourteen charms, will run him close to $800. 

Basketball

My 4 year old, Max, is taking a basketball class at the YMCA.  It's supposed to be for three and four year old kids, but there's this one kid who is basically this guy:



Maybe, maybe, he's almost five….it's possible.  It's also possible that he can get into R rated movies.

Anyway, the class is held every Saturday morning for about a million weeks - seriously, I don't think this class ever ends - and is a nice activity to give Max a break from the Netflix film festival that our lives have become.  It's hard to get dressed and out of the house so early though, what with the cold weather, and the snow, and the fact that Amazon now streams Team Umizoomi.  

But it is always worth it, as there are a few interesting parents in attendance.  Luckily these are pre-schoolers, so we don't yet have the red-faced, thick-necked dads screaming things like LET'S GET SOME HUSTLE!! and CAN'T WE GET SOME DEFENSE?!? (these are all things people scream at sporting events, right?).  We do however have these guys:

1)  The lady who is out there doing literally everything with her kid.  Like, everything.  Time to do drills?  She's out there galloping sideways down the court.  Time to shoot the basketball into a hoop that's like three feet off the ground?  She shoots, she scores!  Time to hop like a frog?  There's a sight I will never be able to erase from my brain.  Although, last week she stayed on the sidelines and her kid spent the entire class running back and forth across the court wearing a superhero cape. So maybe she knew what she was doing.

2)  The dad who shows up in head to toe Addidas athletic gear, and then sits there on his iPad.  What are you doing?  I mean, you looked like you were either going to assist the coaches against their will, or you were going to leave and go workout.  But you're doing neither of those things.  You're sitting in a chair playing Rayman Fiesta Run and not even looking at your kid.  You could have at least worn jeans.

Then you get the older kids that come in and are just waiting around for the class to end so they can use the court.  They start dribbling and doing all this other basketbally type shit on the sidelines, and then one of their red-faced, thick-necked dads comes along and starts clapping and saying things like LET'S GET THAT DEFENSIVE STANCE GOING.  Or whatever.  He doesn't actually say it in all caps, but that's how I hear it because I AM TRYING TO WATCH A CLASS OF 4 YEAR OLD CHILDREN. Would it kill you to just wait quietly out in the hall?  The world will not end if you have to stop dribbling for fifteen freakin minutes.  Here, I'll give you a book to read.

After class, we stop in this play area that looks like a giant tree with a slide built into it, and kids randomly drop their socks on my head while I send text messages to my husband who, for some reason, got to go wait for us in the car.

In conclusion, I'm glad that we are getting out of the house and that Max is getting some exercise.  And once it's over, we get to watch four straight hours of Team Umizoomi with a totally clear conscience.

Basketball!

How Are We Preparing For The Storm?

1.  Lowering our coworker's raised wipers.

2.  Using vacation time in order to leave early. 

3.  Still expecting Fed Ex guy to come. 

4.  Wearing ski boots into staff meeting. 

5.  Screaming "We're all gonna die!" every time a client calls.

6.  Hoarding coworker's lunches in our desk drawer. 

7.  Sending intern to deliver package to New Hampshire.

8.  Vending machine smash & grab.

9.   Sleeping at the motel across the street like we've done every night since Linda threw us out. 

10.  Praying that polar vortex annihilates office. 

Secretary Will Make Great Secretary Someday

According to recent performance evaluation results, local secretary, Jennifer Schmidt, has what it takes to be a great secretary someday.

"Jen's unique talents for problem solving, reading people, and thinking outside the box, will lead her into a bright future in the same exact position that she's always had," typed boss, Mike Hardy, into the Career Goals section of the evaluation form.

Schmidt, who began her secretarial career nine years ago as a secretary, has since been promoted to secretary, secretary, and most recently in 2013, to secretary.  It is the vast experience that she has gained in such areas as billing, contracts, and corporate travel planning, that has led Schmidt to move horizontally along the bottom rung of the corporate ladder.

"We at Carter & Duff are always keeping our eyes open for employees that have what it takes," said Branch Manager, Alan Murphy, nodding in approval after signing off on the evaluation.  "And from what I see here, Ms. Schmidt will be on the fast track to the job she currently holds in no time."

While total career stagnation has not always been a goal of Schmidt's, she admits that hearing it from her boss has really made her think about the future.

"I never thought I had it in me to completely plateau by the age of thirty-three," said Schmidt.  "But hearing it straight from Mike, that means a lot.  Now I have the confidence to continue down this path that will eventually loop around to where I started nine years ago.  It's all very exciting."

"She's always been secretarial material," said Hardy.  "From the first day that she walked in here I said to myself 'that secretary is going places'.  Of course none of us realized at the time that those places would be the same ones she's already been going to for nearly a decade."

If Schmidt continues with this career plan, executives at Carter & Duff have indicated that she can expect a salary equivalent to the one that she receives today, as well as the same job description as the twenty year old temp who was brought in last week to answer the phones.

"I'm really going to miss her when she takes her new position," said Hardy.  "Thankfully, she'll still be here."

Goodbye Old Friend

NOT.  You sucked and I am thrilled to shove you into a drawer never to be used again.  This is  my Panasonic micro cassette transcriber, for those of you who never had the pleasure.  We've finally moved on to digital recording devices, or at least I have.  There are some in my office who are resisting  technology.  They prefer to listen to tapes that sound as if they were recorded from within the sunken remains of the Titanic.  Face it ladies, we're all going to be replaced by robots someday.  And when our robot overlords get here, wouldn't it be nice to be able to converse with them about current technology?    You think Zorax57#1029@6 wants to talk to you about typewriter ribbon?  No.  He'll blast you with his ray gun.  But if you say something like "I really like this new Olympus VN-702PC Voice Recorder with 2 GB of internal memory, how 'bout you?" he might just let you live. 

The Worst Movie That Ever Was And Ever Will Be

I got a bad review of my book the other day.  On New Year's Eve, actually.  It was a really hurtful, bitter review, left by someone who was overly angry at a book that she probably paid nothing for.  I was upset about it for a while, then I decided not to waste my time dwelling on such a miserable person's opinion.  I didn't want to become someone who focuses only on the negative.  If I were to do that, then I would be like her.  I decided to start 2014 with only positive thoughts!

And then I went to see Walking With Dinosaurs.

Fuck.  And I mean fuuuuuck.  If Fifty Shades of Grey is the worst book that ever was and ever will be, then Walking With Dinosaurs is the worst movie that ever was and ever will be.  At least until the Fifty Shades of Grey movie comes out.  But even that is debatable. If I had to choose between sitting through Walking With Dinosaurs for a second time, and watching Anastasia Steele get repeatedly railed by that sick twisted s.o.b., I might have to go for the latter.

And now let's begin:

Walking With Dinosaurs was produced by BBC Earth after the success of their 1999 miniseries of the same name.  It was originally made as a silent film.  A silent film that would have been AWESOME and gorgeous and totally enjoyable to watch. But then some Hollywood executives came along and said "Hey, what would be better than this really awesome silent dinosaur film that would be unlike any other dinosaur film ever made?  I know! Let's dub it with the voice of that guy from Alvin and the Chipmunks.  Justin Long.  Yeah, that guy.  We want him!  And don't forget John Leguizamo!"

My.  God.

I read the bad reviews before we went into the theater, but I still didn't quite comprehend.  I thought, how bad can it be? My four year old will like it, and I just want to look at the dinosaurs.  Who cares about the script?  You know who definitely didn't care about the script?  Whoever wrote the fucking script.

The movie starts off in present day with this paleontologist guy driving his niece and nephew up into the mountains of Alaska to look for dinosaur bones.  The teenaged nephew is all into his cell phone and doesn't care about paleontology in the slightest.  He's all "Who cares about science?  Science didn't build my iPhone!  CANDY CRUSH SAGA!!!!!!!"  The uncle parks the car and takes off with the niece and leaves the dopey nephew to wait in the car.  About three seconds later this wisecracking Latino bird flies down and starts speaking to the kid.  Maybe the kid was doing mushrooms in the car while he waited, I don't know.  They didn't show that part.  Anyway, this talking bird, voiced by John Leguizamo, shows up, and tells the kid that the ancient past is really way super cool and that he's going to tell him all about it.  Then he morphs into this dinosaur bird, unfortunately still voiced by John Leguizamo, and away we go!

The worst bird in all of history

I think I'm just going to make a list:

1)  The voices.  My God, the voices.  First of all, since the movie was originally meant to be a silent film, the dinosaurs mouths don't move.  There's just this weird voiceover throughout the entire thing, where it looks like the dinosaurs are communicating telepathically.  It made it very difficult to figure out who the hell was talking.  Unless, of course it was John Leguizamo, then all you said to yourself was "Shit, that annoying bird's talking again."

2) The main character is this teenaged dinosaur (was that a thing?) named Patchi, who goes on a migration with his herd.  Along the way he falls in love with this other teenaged dinosaur and the two of them get separated from the herd and run into all sorts of dopey trouble.  Whatever.  Who cares.  All I could focus on was the absolute garbage that kept spewing out of Patchi's mouth.  Endless references to modern day things, like calling bird-like dinosaurs "Turkey bird!" as an insult.  Turkeys?  Why would dinosaurs know about turkeys??  And ninjas!  And he talked as if he were typing status updates on Facebook.  "Worst.  Migration.  Ever."  He says this.  HE ACTUALLY FUCKING SAYS THIS.

I'm happy you guys are extinct

3) I'm always up for a poop or a fart joke.  I'll even take a vomit joke if it's all you've got.  This movie dumped all of the above on us within the first ten minutes, and did so with such awful delivery that all I could do was roll my eyes.  You know who used to roll her eyes at poop jokes?  My mother.  This movie has turned me into my mother.

4)  The main character has this permanent hole in his head from where he was attacked when he was a baby.  Countless times we were subjected to jokes about his hole.  This movie that only appeals to children under age 3, makes countless references to a dinosaur's HOLE.  Like his butthole, get it?!?  The producers really wanted you to get it - that's why they made the joke fifty-seven times.

5) Patchi's brother, Scowler, is a total douche-bag.  He talks like Biff from Back to the Future.  He says things like "Hey losers!  Ha Ha! They looked!"  That's all I have to say about him.  I wish he'd died.

Scowler

6)  At one point, when all the dinosaurs were walking across a frozen lake, I wished that they would fall in and drown so that I could go home.

7)  At the end of the movie we get to see the dopey human kid again.  Apparently he's watched the same movie that we just did even though he was standing out in the Alaskan wilderness.  He's suddenly all "PALEONTOLOGY ROCKS!!!"  and even his uncle is like "Woah, it's not that cool."  Then the bird, who literally made me feel like I was being stabbed in the brain with a fork, came back to end the movie with one more lame joke.  Then he burst out of the movie screen and followed me to the car saying things like "I know you are, but what am I?" into the back of my head.

In conclusion:  Don't see this movie.  Don't take your kids to see this movie.  Don't remind me that I've seen this movie.  The script was so bad that I wasn't even able to concentrate on how awesome the special effects probably were, and that's a pretty big shame.