Babysitter, babysitter, where for art thou babysitter?

In honor of the unveiling of Baby Suri and the announcement that Baby Shiloh Brangelina has been knighted by the Queen and the anticipation for Baby Britney 2.0’s arrival, I will treat you all to a child-themed post…

OK, anyone who has kids is more than welcome to explain to me where I might be wrong in assuming this… Perhaps the fact that I don’t have children and don’t even know if I want to have them is clouding my judgment here…. Then again, perhaps it’s not….
Since when did it become acceptable to have kids in the workplace? I’m not talking about people who work at Disneyworld or the zoo…I’m talking about investment banking firms and restaurants/cafes. Now, before I get started on my tirade, I want to make something clear – I don’t have an issue with kids in the office on the official “take your kid to work day” [1] and I don’t have an issue with kids coming in for a few hours on a half day just before/after a holiday (i.e. the Friday before Memorial/Labor Day or the day after Thanksgiving). As far as I know, no one is really working on those days anyway.

No, I’m talking about just a regular-ass day like any other… I’ve noticed that it especially happens towards the end of the summer, but it can be a year-round occurrence. Through my non-Mommy eyes, this is what it looks like to me - your kid has nothing on his/her agenda for the day – camp is over or school is closed, and rather than actually make arrangements, you pack your brat along with your salad and head into the office. Once you arrive, you go about your business, doing your work while your colleagues are exposed to your hyperactive, pietre dish, snot nosed spawn. I’ve heard parents say to the kids that they bring in to the office on more than one occasion, “OK, Mommy/Daddy has work to do. You go find something to keep yourself occupied with.” Lots of times, these parents unleash their kids on their secretaries. Um, OK, because planning your days and doing your grunt work and getting you from point A to B on time and reminding you to eat and pee is not enough to keep your secretary busy. No, that’s certainly not enough work. Why have a secretary when you could have a nannytary or an assistanny? Multitasking, people! It’s all about the multitasking! But of course, you’re the working parent who does it all, thank-you-very-much! I’m sorry, but the going rate for nannies in NYC is what, about $25/hr? I highly doubt that anyone who drops their kid on their assistant is going to leave a couple of crisp hundos on the desk at the end of the day… Not that anyone with a corner office or who has their own assistant reads my blog, but just in case one stumbles upon this little rant – guess what – your secretary cannot boss your kid around. Your kid is an extension of you, and by dumping your kid on your secretary’s lap, you are in essence, forcing the person that your company pays to assist you with work related tasks to be all smiles to your little brat. I’m really sure that it was your assistant’s plan all along to eat lunch at a cheesy theme restaurant. I mean, grown ups without kids eat at Chuck E. Cheese all the time. It’s my favorite lunchtime destination, for sure! You know, it’s one thing if you want to step on your assistant, but to have your kid do it too? So, now your assistant feels like crap and isn’t getting their work done. On top of that, they’re not going to yell at your kid – so, essentially your kid is at the helm… Oh, and don’t even get me started on the people who don’t have an assistant – their kids just go straight to driving the general public of the office crazy without the pit-stop at the nannytary’s desk.

You know, if I took off my shoes, stuck my finger up my nose, and started doing summersaults down the hallway while screaming[2], I would most likely be escorted out of the building promptly. If I went into a corner office and plugged my iPod into the PC and started pumping SexyBack by Justin Timberlake so loud that it could be heard clear across the floor[2a], it wouldn’t matter if it was 5:30pm, HR would still tell me to pump my pop outside because at this firm, we work (not rock) around the clock.

When I was a kid, my mom stayed at home, so there was none of this going to the office with her malarkey. However, whenever we went out in public, we were by her side, quiet – unspoken unless spoken to, etc. And for those rare occasions when we started to get out of line, my mother had a secret weapon. She may not have believed in dinosaurs, but my mom was a firm believer in what we call simply “The Pinch”. Imagine, bony fingers grabbing you just above your elbow, punching while pulling and twisting a slight bit. Man, my mom could patent “The Pinch” and sell it as a self-defense technique. I know one or two overly aggressive drunken football players from high school who can attest to the power of The Pinch (and my fingers are not nearly as bony as my mom’s).

I mean seriously, if I started hiding under people’s desks while they were off making copies and welcomed them back[3] by growling, I’d be sent to the psychoanalyst on my way out the door. Oh, and I’m pretty sure that if it were me sashaying down the line of stalls in the ladies room peering into each crack in the doors to see who was conducting their “business”, I’d be sued as well as fired.

But I know- it’s hard to see the field when your head is up the cow’s ass. So, let me tell you, your kids are not cute while they are in the workplace. As soon as they slap on that little visitor’s pass, they become hideous distractions. A 3 legged, 2 headed donkey-man with mange and halitosis would be less of a distraction. Odds are, your child is too young to stay home alone unsupervised and you brought them to the office so that someone could keep an eye on them. Here’s a HINT – if your kid is going to get in trouble being home alone where they have access to video games, toys, computers, etc. odds are that they should not, SHOULD NOT, be running around an office full of paper shredders, copy machines and nasty people like me all by themselves. I’m sorry, but I think that as a grown up, I ought not have to censor myself – telling an annoying salesman that he’s a “poopie-head” and to “take my name off his flippin’ list” just doesn’t seem effective. It’s like watching “Scarface” on UPN. Unacceptable. As a member of the workforce, I ought to be able to come to work and be left alone while I blog about the things that annoy me rather than being kicked in the shins by them…. So, next time you’re taking your kid home from the office, don’t come complaining to me if they have a giant bruise right above their elbow…I simply cannot help it if I have to channel my mom and The Pinch…

I swear if I ever own a business that has employees with children, there will be a sign at the door: “You must be this tall to ride this ride.” [4]

[1] (I’m lying, I have issue with people bringing infants into the office for an extended period of time on the Take your Kid to Work “holiday” – I mean, isn’t the whole idea behind it so that your kid can see what it’s like to slave away at your job all day and begin to understand why it’s important that they a) marry rich and b) leave you the hell alone when you get home because you just had a crap day? Besides, I thought that the big draw for bringing your kids to work is that you can get all that backed up “busy work” done – I mean, what infant is going to file, staple and collate for you?)

[2] don’t think I haven’t thought about doing it, on more than one occasion.

[2a] don’t think I haven’t thought about doing that, on more than one occasion either.

[3] and giving them myocardial infarctions

[4] Oooh, I could probably avoid dealing with my fear of “little people” that way too. Sweet.

Going down as my breakfast was coming up

OK, just a quickie [1] - but I promise that there will be something bigger and better shortly.

I hate elevators. Being closed in a relatively small box that goes up and down on a cable is not my idea of a good time. Then, for shits and giggles, let's give ourselves even less room in that little box, by acting like animals to fill up every square inch of floorspace, so that on every stop, 15 people have to get out so that the person in the back row can get off, in essence, causing this trip to take twice as long, seeing as how every freakin floor has been selected as a stop.

I don't like the fact that in a crowded elevator, I am breathing other people's mouth-breath, ass-breath, armpit-breath, etc. It's gross. Lots of times, I hold my breath as long as I can, and now that I've quit smoking, I can go a few more floors than before. What I can't do, however, is stop hearing things without resorting to surgically implanting my iPod to my side.

So, persons who may someday ride in an elevator with me, I beg you to be aware that I am involuntarily in earshot...

Thus, do NOT discuss ANYTHING to do with your reproductive life. I'm just going to get a cup of coffee. I don't want to know about how you're "trying to have a baby". I'm sorry, but even if you are attractive (which you know the people who volunteer this stuff in elevators never are), I do not want to be forced into thinking about you and your significant other having planned baby-making sessions. In essence, you've just kidnapped me and brought me to your bedroom and tied me up and tortured me with views of your hairy back while you do your wife who has a thermometer in one hand and an ovulation chart in the other. You're an evil mental-kidnapper, and I propose that there be some sort of legal punishment for subjecting me to this craptastic torture.

Similarly, I don't want to know about vasectomies or tube tying operations either. You know, pretty much anything to do with the parts of our bodies that we generally would not expose in the Vatican ought to be off limits. Actually, all body parts - except hair (the kind on the top of your head) are hereby deemed inappropriate material for elevator discussion.

Because next time I hear something along these inappropriate lines, I will gladly turn to you and tell you all about how I just threw up a little bit of my breakfast burrito into my mouth. And I will, in striking detail, explain to you what it feels like to regurgitate a jalapeno.

Thank you kindly.

[1] Just realized, the title is "Going down" and the first sentence is about a "quickie"... unintentional, I swear.

I BLOW

So, according to Wikipedia:

A whistleblower is an employee, former employee, or member of an organization who reports misconduct to people or entities that have the power to take corrective action. Generally the misconduct is a violation of law, rule, regulation and/or a direct threat to public interest -- fraud, health, safety violations, and corruption are just a few examples.

Well, Wiki-Writers, get your little fingers ready to write an update to that definition… I’ve been thinking about it, and there’s one thing I know I’m good at – coming across people who suck, getting mad about it and writing about it here. I think that makes me a new brand of whistleblower…I’m not ratting out Big Tobacco to the government – but I am ratting out Big Assholes to you, my 5 readers. I figure that since I’m a member of this organization that I like to call humanity, I’ll report social misconduct to you (assuming you have the power to take corrective action by spreading the word, eventually causing the Assholes to stumble across this blog and read about themselves in black & white – and purple, since sometimes I like to write in purple). So here’s my edit to the Wiki entry:

A social whistleblower is The Girl or other member of humanity who reports misconduct to the public, who has the power to take corrective action by spreading the word. Generally the misconduct is a violation that The Girl deems inappropriate social behavior and/or a direct threat to public interest as it pisses The Girl off, and no one likes it when she’s mad-- fraud, health/safety violations, general idiocy, and corruption are just a few examples.

FU to SUVs

I know that there are some good people who drive SUVs. I’m sure that I’ve forgiven 5 people that I know for owning vehicles originally designed for the military to carry their precious cargo through the rough and tumble landmine infested streets between their neighborhood grocery store and their garage.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit – I drive a hybrid car. Am I biased towards fuel-efficient vehicles? Yes. Do I feel that I have the right to be just a little bit smug? Yes. Anyway, with that being said, now back to my rant…

I’m not going to steal Al Gore’s material. Do I care about the environment? See above. Do I think that our dependence on oil, which we have little of and countries hostile to us have a fair amount of, puts us in a bit of a pickle? No. Not at all… I think it puts us smack in the middle of the econo-sized jar of Vlasic Kosher Dills – and not those puny sandwich stackers – I’m talking full sized, so big you can barely get them out of the jar without injury because their stems break under their massive weight pickles.

But that’s not why I’m speaking out against SUVs. No. There is something far more important than our environment and socio-economic stability fueling this girl’s giant combustion engine… My patience. And like the polar ice caps and the US’s status as a superpower, my patience are in a state of decline.

I accept the fact that we live in a big is better and Hummer huge is best society. And I accept that not everyone gives a hairy rat’s ass about what happens to our planet as a result of our high-falutin’ needs to be able to receive instant gratification by carting our Pottery Barn and Best Buy purchases home the same day in our Tahoes. I also understand that there ARE potholes in NYC that require 4WD.

What I don’t understand is this: why is it that every SUV driver that I encounter on the road seems to have received a free Super-sized Stupid Sandwich with large fries Extra Value Meal for free with their SUV purchase? I mean, seriously, why is it that the bigger your vehicle gets, the dumber you become while behind the wheel? NOTE: if you are one of the approximately 7.25% [1] of people who have an SUV and actually know how to drive, please read on and kindly bring it up at the next SUV&ME club meeting. Your brethren are giving you a really bad name…

Was I napping when FOX News[2] broke the story about how research has shown that once your vehicle reaches a certain size, you no longer have to put forth any effort while driving and can, instead, focus on your blackberry while putting a packet of splenda into your triple shot mocha-caramel-vanilla-hazelnut SKIM frappuccino with extra whipped cream, while simultaneously changing the DVD so that those whailing banshees in the back seat zone out and become good little children once again, allowing you to concentrate on that email and enjoy that cool, skim 300,000 calorie beverage?

Out of the kindness of my shriveled, cold heart, I offer these tips to SUV drivers:

#1- You are not driving a mini-fucking-cooper. This means that you do not fit in 7” parking spaces. Think about it – if the driver of a BigWheel would have to parallel park, you WON’T fit. This also means that you should not try to squeeze your way into my buffer zone in traffic. You trying to fit into my in case I get rear ended I’d rather not plow the guy in front of me space is akin to JLo trying to get that ass of hers into a size 0 pair of jeans or Bea Arthur trying to get her massive man-feet into a pair of size 5 Manolos or Tom Cruise trying to get into a society for sane people – it just ain’t going to happen.

#2- Be aware of puddles, potholes, and manhole covers. Be aware of them while you drive right over them. Be aware of the fact that your vehicle is meant for offroading. It is highly unlikely that normal onroading will destroy it. Recently, I was stuck behind a woman in an SUV who actually held up traffic for a good 3 minutes while waiting for the oncoming traffic lane to empty out because she was unwilling to drive through a puddle that while it was wide, was no more than an inch deep. I’m sorry, but if I am able to get through something in my Honda Civic, your BMW X3 should also emerge from such situations unscathed.

#3- Speed bumps and rumble-strips – See #2.

#4 – Multiple choice: You are behind someone who breaks down on an on-ramp. There is a space that’s just 2” short of you being able to get through (read: regular cars would fit), and there is a line of 5 people behind you (first and foremost – me). Do you:

a. sit and wait for AAA, keeping the broken down guy company.
b. back up.
c. throw her in 4WD and go over the 3” curb that’s preventing you from continuing on your merry way to Costco or Sam’s Club or wherever you’re going to fill the back of your Trailblazer up with bulk packs of Bounty and Cheetos.

I’ll give you a hint – it’s neither “a” nor “b” (nor any combination of the two such as “a” for 20 minutes followed by “b”).

OK, that concludes the first lesson in how to drive your gas guzzling, earth killing monstrosity of a vehicle. I’m sure that’s all you can fit in your head at the moment anyway – because unfortunately, brain size doesn’t correlate to vehicle size. Learn the rules and live them. We’ll discuss the remaining issues some other day – most likely the day you cut me off by invading my buffer zone and then proceed to go .05 mph over a puddle that you sat in front of for 27 minutes debating about crossing only to come to a full stop and try to throw it in reverse to avoid a speed bump[3].

[1] margin of error +/- 7.25%
[2] I know, it’s an oxymoron FOX + News
[3] Note, this will also be the day that I get out of my car and bitchslap you all the way back into that roomy trunk of yours.

Workin for the city...

I promise, I'm still alive. Though, for all you knew I could have been abducted by evil clowns (that's redundant), chained up to a Wonderwheel filled with lead in a room painted with green and yellow stripes and pink polkadots... being fed nothing but the whipped cream pies and seltzer water that Bozo and his buddys threw at me for practice.

Thanks for trying to find and rescue me. Lucky for you I was actually working, vacationing, working, and then vacationing again. Then I was apartment hunting. Now I've used all my vacation days, found an apartment and am just workin for the city... ok, I don't work for the city... I work in the city, but it's just easier to say than "workin for the investment firm that manages money for all the investment firms that you hear about on TV but you never heard of this one because we don't deal with the public directly unless you have so much money that you don't ever watch TV because it is financially beneath you to stare at a little light box and be awed by fancy things because you could just stare at the 4 balinese orphans that you just bought from the circus and make them do tricks without commercials". So, yeah, I'm workin for the city... but hopefully I'll have some time to post that's not when I'm not exhausted...maybe, if you're good, Girlie Clause will even give you something to read that makes sense...

Pre-feature Commercial

OK, OK. I know that in the trailer I promised you "Office Idol: An Adventure in KaraNOke" would be coming to a blog near you soon. It is. I mean it. Just think of this as the commercial prior to the movie that you paid[1] to see.

So, one of my esteemed fellow cubicle dwellers recently left the firm. He was my partner in sarcasm and is sorely missed. Awh. Bleh! Anyway, earlier today, someone called for him. I am just now realizing that I may have unintentionally given that caller a very wrong impression...

The conversation went a little something like this:

Caller: Hello, is Cubicle Boy there?
The Girl: Oh, I'm sorry, um, he is no longer...(rather long pause as I was covering 8 people's phone lines for a multitude of reasons, plus actually trying to do my job - shocking - I know)... Cubicle Boy is no [SNIFFLE (I have a stuffy nose)] longer with us. [SNIFFLE].
Caller: Oh, I, Oh, uh, goodness....
The Girl: [Distractedly] Is there something that I can help you with?
Caller: [Nervously] Uh, no. Thanks. Um, have a good day? Bye.
[CLICK]
-Fin-

Um, so, Cubicle Boy, if you're out there still keeping up with the blog, and you somehow hear that you've gone to that great big cubicle in the sky....whoops! My bad.

-AKA The Girl
[1] Hmmm, there's an idea... Maybe I should get paid to bring you the next post....

Trailer...

So - I've been busy [1] these last few weeks.

Actually, this blog has begun to serve its purpose - no, not making good litterbox lining or excellent kindling for starting subway track fires - though I suppose those are both purposes I could support... I actually started working on my book again, after months of total stagnation. More about that some other time.

Anywho, on with the trailer...

Coming soon to a blog near you
Office Idol
An Adventure in KaraNOke

[1] Dreaming/nightmaring about the Golden Girls counts as busy, right?

And the card attached would say...

So, imagine that your family [1] is being held hostage. You are contacted through shady means, and advised that you have a single opportunity to save your loved one. In order to prevent execution by electrocution, you, my friend, must endure [2] one passionate, hot, sweaty night of lovemaking with the Golden Girl of your choice.

The clock is ticking. The hostage is begging you for his/her life. Who will it be?

For those of you who need a refresher the Golden Girls =

Feistey sex-pot Blanche Devereaux (Rue McClanahan)
Rapier witted, husky voiced Dorothy Petrillo-Zbornak(Bea Arthur)
St. Olaf's favorite blonde, Rose Nyulan (Betty "have your pets spayed or neutered" White)
Sophia "I'll hit you with my handbag stuffed with condiments from various eateries" Petrillo (Estelle Getty)

So, my friends, who will it be? Which Golden Girl will you screw to save your loved one?

I really do want to hear about it. Unleash your wild GG fantasy. No cop-outs. I don't want to hear "none of them" [3]. Now, of course, I can't ask you to share without sharing alike.

I am a total Bea Arthur Girl. The way I look at it is that with her rugged good looks, booming voice and unquestionable man-hands, she might be better than some of my previous boyfriends. If I close my eyes, who knows, I might enjoy it. :)

I asked this at Sunday dinner with the family once. I beleive I just blurted out: "If you absolutely HAD to fuck a Golden Girl, which one would you choose?"

My mom didn't even have to think about it. Her reply: "The little one." Meaning Estelle Getty. Hmmm, she's little and old (kind of an anti-T-Rex). Maybe she can convince my mom about the dinosaur thing, considering that she was a kid at that time...

[1] If you could care less about your family, just substitute someone that you really care about – Ronald McDonald, your fave Teletubby, Tom Jones, your third grade teacher, etc. If you are truly a heartless bastard who cares for no one, then YOU are the hostage & this is your one chance for freedom.
[2] Enjoy might be the appropriate word for some of you
[3] I'd love to hear "all of them".