Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Atta Dude!

I work with a couple of people who are, to use the technical term, Professional Grumps. 

Now, I will admit that I have many a time when I am a Scowley McCrankypants or a Teary McWoeisme, but I feel the majority of  the time I serve myself up as Cheerful, with Side of Wit and a Tangy Sarcastic Dipping Sauce.  (Try me with fries!) 

These two gentlemen have *never* said hello or good morning to me in the nine months I've worked here.  NEVER.  The first three months, I valiantly wished them good morning every day, hoping to one day get at least a grunt in return.  Nada.  I eventually gave up and now barely acknowledge their existence.  If everyone else in the firm was the same way, I could chalk it up to some asinine office policy.  But everyone else's attitude ranges from Distantly Affable to Overly Friendly, which is pretty normal.  These are the only two Mordor Posterboys.  (Which makes me want to come to work some day in a robe and long, white wig and confront them when they walk in the door by saying, "You Shall Not Pass!  Till you say good morning!"  I think Sir Ian would approve.)

I see no reason for/nor have patience with this attitude.  It takes two seconds to say good morning (I timed it), and it is just good manners.  It seems to me if you're making a Million Gajillion Dollars a year, you can afford two seconds of non-billable time to say good morning to the Lowly Receptionist.  But then, I've never been very good with money, so I may be all wrong here.  Come to think of it, if I never said good morning to Bad Steve, I might still have all the money he stole from me.  (Note to self:  ask Mr. Buffet about this, the next time I'm talking to him.) But no matter what economic spin you put on it, it is still Bad Manners and Rude and Bad Form. 

 I will now shake off  my Bitchy O'Complainington persona and resume my Post-Lunch McSleepyton personality.

Friday, March 22, 2013

The Sound of Musings

 I get the sense the entire country is depressed because Punxsutawney Phil lied to us.  Seriously, what is the world coming to if you can't trust a rodent?  I feel there is a joke about Congress here somewhere, but I'm too depressed to figure it out, so make one up yourself.

In an attempt to bring us all out of the doldrums, I will now compend a list of A Few Of My Favorite Things.  I have no idea how this is going to make any of you feel cheerier, but it may help me, so in the tradition of the Great American Way, I say Fuck Y'All, I'm The Only One Who Matters. 

1.  Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens (I thought I'd get it out of the way)
2.  Easter candy (with the exception of marshmallow peeps, a true confectionary abomination)
3.  Bra straps that stay up (these don't exist, but they would make me happy if they did)
4.  Warm, sunny days (see paranthetical note 3, above)
5.  Getting cast in a play (no explanation needed)
6.  Saturday mornings (Sundays, not so much, because of the lingering childhood trauma of having to go to church on Sundays.  It was my weekly emotional  root canal.)
7.  My kids (They are, unequivacably, the two most awesome human beings on the planet.)
8.  My kitties (same as #7, but substitute cats for human beings, which is a pretty good idea overall.)
9.  My friends (my friends are The Best and My Family and I love them.)
10. My bed (which is where I wish I were right now)

I could go on, but the 32 of you who are reading this are probably ready to wander off and get some Easter candy, and I don't blame you.  But, if Spring ever does actually show up, I will continue the list.  Yeah, don't hold your breath.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

All the Olds That's Fit to Print

In much the same way that a child will longingly watch teenagers, to see what lies ahead, I sometimes observe Eldsters, to see what I have to look forward to, unless I'm lucky enough to drop dead first. 

Evidently, the hot new trend in walkers is this thing with three wheels that appears to have handbrakes.  I don't understand why a walker would need handbrakes.  (Or handbreaks, for that matter.  Most Oldies are pretty adept at breaking their hands on their own.)  But, yet, I have noticed many an Overthehillian merrily careening down the sidewalk at the breathtaking rate of 2 miles/month, hands tensed near the handbrakes, just in case their feet forget how to stop themselves.  But at least a handbrake-equipped walker is less embarrassing than::


If, Universe forbid, I ever get so debilitated that I require a Hoveround, please do the humane thing and put a bullet in my head.  I would be Demonic on a Hoveround.  I would get it pimped out with hydraulics and a horn that played Play That Funky Music White Boy, leopard seat covers, and heavy bass speakers that you can hear 3 counties away.  And I'd run over everyone in my path.  Hey, I'm old and I can't walk, what do I care? Move, motherfuckers, I'm crippled!  Either that or I'd just get drunk and keep driving the thing in circles till I pass out. 

At least it gives me something to look forward to.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Political Rand

I don't understand what Paul Rand was trying to achieve with his fillibuster yesterday.  He knew going into it that John Brennan had enough support on both sides of the aisle to get enough votes to be confirmed, but he went ahead with the stupid fillibuster thingy anyway.  These are the only reasons I can come up with why he thought This Would Be a Good Idea:

1.  He hopes to be the next Jimmy Stewart and he thought that by staging a one-man production of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, he'd be a shoe-in.  Personally, I think he would have been better off choosing something a little lighter, like Harvey.  Who wouldn't enjoy seeing a Republican walk around talking to a six-foot invisible rabbit?  (White Rabbit, of course.)

2.  He wants to follow in the footsteps of other great Historical Rands, like Ayn or McNally, but he's neither an author nor a cartographer.  He'd be better off adding a Y to his name and writing clever songs about short people or TV detectives, and singing them with a New Orleans accent.  There's your surefire ticket to fame, right there.

3.  He's an Asshole.

You make the call.