Brain Soup

Sometimes-and by sometimes, I mean all the time-work kills my brains. When I get yet another degenerate gambler screaming at me in some unintelligible accent (Jamaican, Bostonian, Italian, doesn't matter..) about how his account is short five bucks because he can't do simple math or learn to navigate a fucking website because his grandkids thought it would be a hoot to buy grandpappy a new laptop so he could email them pictures of his new cat and type his entire topic IN THE DAMN SUBJECT LINE!!!! *gasp...collects self*...well, I just feel a little bit of myself die inside. I swear, it really is like these damn headsets we snake over our craniums every day slowly seep off tiny bits of gray matter with every call-like skimming oil off a pot of Pho. Then, they whisk it away to feed to a giant, hideous, cloud-like monster that feeds off of our very thoughts and souls-devouring anything of substance. But unlike Pho-where eventually after all that skimming you are left with the best parts of a savory spiced broth that is like a little orgy in your mouth when you add the noodles, flank steak, bean sprouts, basil and Sriracha-all this leaves me with is a steadily dwindling store of intellect, sanity, and drive for life. And that monster is the voice on the other end of the line.

Now, I've never met someone who I actually knew for a fact had an IQ of 70-but I guarantee you that I talk to at least 20 of these people a day at my job. On a good day. And by "good" I mean "doesn't end with me seriously contemplating the benefits of shaking my head so hard I get a concussion from knocking my brain against my skull over and over again." Yes, I know how hard that would be to accomplish. That's how god damned hopeless my work life has become.

Oh, sure, not all of them are that bad, and the fringe benefits certainly help-but aside from the occasional pair of movie tickets, iPod Shuffle or brief chat with a B-list celebrity, for the most part, I am dying a little inside every time I hear yet another middle-school dropout mouth breather posing as his girlfriend's "legal counsel" answer the phone threatening to go to the FBI over twelve dollars that was never missing to begin with. On the bright side, only 30 minutes left until my weekend! Then I can regroup, refresh, and come back to fight another day! Right?...Right?

......Anyone?

I literally just got back last week from vacation. God help us all.

Dear Cheese

Dear Cheese Stick,

I'm sorry you're forced to sit there in front of me, looking all delicious in your tidy little clear plastic wrapping-the soft white and warm, pleasant orange melding together in fantastic Colby Jack-ness. It's just, well, I have a job, you know? It's not that I don't want you-hell, you know I positively drool over those sharp little curves that make up that luscious rectangle that is you-but I have to make enough money to support both of us, and it would look really bad if they graded one of my calls and heard me...you know...eating. You're still my cheesy little goodness, it's just a bad time for me right now. I don't know...maybe I should have left you in the fridge at home-you had family there, ya know? The half block of Cheddar, the shredded Mexican blend (even though he was kind of an asshole sometimes), your other fellow cheese stick brethren-yeah, it wasn't perfect, but at least you had each other, right? You had a support group-you weren't just laying there, getting all room-temperature and soft in your packaging. You deserve better than that. Don't worry, we'll be together soon, I'll take you somewhere nice-like the break room-you'd like that, right? Yeah, the break room, where I'll eat you. And we'll finally be happy together.

Love,
Me

Tis' the season

To forget about shitty customers. So, for no apparent reason, here is Marlon Bran-dough with a stack of dough dressed up like a male doe-which is technically a buck, but it's my blog here, so if you want to split hairs, go suck a d'oh.

Speaking of things that don't make sense, last night I was taking my dog on her normal 20 minute "This spot's not quite right to bless with pee" walk (the sweet momma one, not the demon), when all of the sudden these two mops-I mean rats-I mean dogs-come tearing up to us with their owner shouting at them, and they are piiiiissed. They were seriously all like "maah! We're evil little cockapoos and we're bitter because we're not a real breed! maah! Fie on you and your dog for bequeathing this ground with pee!" Also, I'm pretty much in possession of the worst reflexes. Ever. Young Anakin I am not. Ever heard that quote "he who hesitates is lost"? I would be the first to die on the battlefield in times of yore. I often reflect upon this minor tragedy of life-often while I should probably be reacting to the urgent-and sometimes dangerous-situation at hand. Anyways, that's neither here nor there-the point is, it's because of these "reflexes" that I have to almost manually engage, that it wasn't until the little beasties were almost upon me that I reached down to pick up my dog, who was currently standing with her feeble little chest puffed out and her head back-looking more intrigued than anything. Suddenly, just as I'm about to lift her up and out of harm's way, I hear the familiar click of an extendable leash and the dogs come to an abrupt halt-half choking themselves. Just like that. The woman who owned them had a leash on them the entire time and for some God knows why reason decided that the best solution to keeping them under control is to run after them, shouting nonsensical half-formed commands. As they're slowly pulled away (apparently controlling two dogs who weigh all of twenty pounds put together is a very laborious task), barking all the while, my dog and I walk back to the apartment, she determinedly snuffing in a very "psh, I could have taken them" way. Later on, as I saw the same lady walking the same dogs down the same sidewalk, the same 10 feet in front of her, I had an epiphany: I hate little yappy fucking dogs.

Spice Sharks!

Got bored yesterday at work, thought I'd create the next big pop hit: The Spice Sharks!

Holiday Rememberances

As I sit in my warm living room, the rain is falling outside, splattering against the muddy, banana slug-coated sidewalks and soaking everyone from the knees down who dares to so much as set foot outside. Dead, soaked skeletons of leaves glue themselves to the bottom of your shoes and sides of your car. Trimet drivers scowl and curse as you feebly flash your just-purchased ticket at them while trying to find a seat that is neither covered in something non-descript and sticky or next to that crazy homeless man who always tries to tell you about his latest best-selling book idea.

 
 Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the holidays are upon us! It's time once again to pull out the old crinkled wrapping paper you've been storing in the closet, smooth it flat, and wrap up your best still-packaged shit you got from other people last year that you never opened, and pawn it off as a thoughtfully planned gift. Typical though it may be, Christmas is my favorite time of year, and whenever it rolls around, I can't help but thoughtfully reminisce about seasons past... 

   December, 2006. My (now ex) husband is in Iraq and I'm just trying to make the best, warmest holiday possible out of an empty apartment and two cats. Sitting cross-legged on my couch, a big grin spreading ear-to-ear on my face as I take in the impressive pile of presents and Christmas wrapping I've acquired over the past two months. Jewelry, video games, movies, a pillow, various stocking stuffers-I gloat over my hoard of gifts and turn on the tv. Law & Order: SVU is in the middle of a marathon-this night is already off to a great start. I carefully take everything on the coffee table and set it gently on the floor next to me, select my first gift (a necklace for my sister-in-law), and select a delicate gold and white wrapping paper, spreading it out in front of me and smoothing down the edges, laying out my plan of attack. The fireplace in the corner catches my eye-I stop, practically able to see the light bulb pinging over my head. Of course! How am I supposed to have the perfect Christmas-y evening without a perfect Christmas-y fire to go with it?! My love of fire combined with my love of Christmas-what could go wrong? Briefly, my mind flashes to two years ago when my mom deigned me with the task of cleaning the hair out from the vacuum. Something about a matchstick bonfire on our laminate countertop comes to mind..Quickly, I shake the memory from my head-that was years ago! I'm all grown up now! I'm 19! And married! And I have cats and an apartment! Besides, it took her months to find that bubble under that mouse pad. I crawl towards the fireplace, eyeing the basket of firewood and newspaper in the corner, lighter in hand. I construct my fire with precision and planning worthy of a surgeon-or at least an Ocean's 11 sequel. Newspaper, cardboard, small logs, biiiiig log. After a few careful adjustments, I light the newspaper in various places, watching it burn and spread-excitement spreading just as steadily. Smoke began to plume out of the fireplace-the manager said it would, said the flue had to "warm up" before it started funneling the smoke out the chimney. As my fire died from lack of oxygen, I began to blow on it, adding more and more newspaper to the pile as the pile of ash below it became steadily larger.

So absorbed was I in this task, that I didn't notice until a good 20 minutes later the full extent of smoke that had accumulated in my apartment. My eyes stung as I squinted at the clump of wires dangling from the ceiling that had been my smoke detector months ago. Panicking, I threw open the sliding glass door, waving all the smoke out with a kitchen towel, with little to no effect. Think, Tiffany, think! What do you always need to get smoke out?? Another lightblub pinged. A cross breeze! I ran over to the front door, fanning it open and shut furiously so as to get as much oxygen through the apartment as possible. Unfortunately, my apartment had smoke detectors lined up and down the halls through my building, so as to protect us from, well, people like me. These smoke detectors had the added bonus of being about three times as loud, as well as the ability to set off all the other detectors around it, and eventually my entire building was deafening half the complex. At 9 o'clock at night. I ran back out to the balcony, trying feebly to tell everyone to go back in their houses with their pets and belongings, that there was no fire...just me. Pretty soon, I catch the gaze of my apartment manager, hobbling out in her pajamas and a robe, peering up at me-curiosity and concern evident in her face, even from three stories up. Sighing, I throw on a jacket and run downstairs, explaining everything to her and trying to avoid the stares of half the complex. She took it pretty well, I must say, and shut off the main building alarm, silence finally filling the night.

Until the fire trucks came.


Sirens blaring, lights blazing, two trucks turned into the complex almost as soon as she shut off the alarm, slowing to a stop directly in front of us as two extremely handsome, extremely mature firemen stepped out in front of me.
"I-I'm sorry...there's no fire..." I spluttered, my face turning very nearly the same shade as the fire truck itself. For some reason, my manager thought they should go upstairs anyways, just to make sure there wasn't actually some huge, roaring fire consuming my apartment at this very moment. I managed to get up before them, hurling my cats into my bedroom for safekeeping and trying to straighten my counters as best I could. While I did get a mild lecture on the importance of having a smoke detector installed in my apartment (apparently it's illegal or something to not have it in-who knew, right?), I must say I got off pretty easy, nowhere near the nightmare of fines and angry yelling I was expecting.
"So, we get one of those presents for all this, right?" the first one grinned.
"Oh! Uh, um, I mean, not unless you like necklaces, heh..."
"Nah, that's for this one over here," the first one laughed, jerking his head towards the second one, who grinned sheepishly and tried to hide his face behind his wavy, honey-colored hair. Soon after they left, followed by a string of stuttered apologies and thanks on my end.

So there's the story of when attempted to have a warm, Christmas-y evening, only to end up chasing 3 dozen people from their homes and wasting God knows how many tax dollars in what will forever be burned (hehe) into my memory as one of the most humiliating evenings of my life. Have a happy holidays and keep your fire extinguishers handy.