New Job: Day 4

Day Four

And I made it to my holiday weekend. Thank mother fucking God. I’m sorry, excuse my French. Thank mother fucking Chanel. And thanks to some woman named Susan, who gave Big T a break and showcased some fucking personality up in here. Up in here. And a big shout out  to some additive into my Bigby that may or may not have been a derivative to Addy. Or heroin. I used a Barbie pen and wore a sleeveless LBD as my interpretation of “dress down” day. Apparently the true meaning was the men’s medium extra small man-ish polo shirt. Some girl with a substantial gut came up to me and stated she was not a dress kind of girl and should have ordered a bigger size in her men’s medium extra small shirt. The thing is, she said this with straight up attitude to me. Hey bitch, sorry you are hefty in the gut, I don’t wear pants because I’m Pentecostal. God damn, this shit is boring. When can I open my faux drawer and sell some God damn Chanel shit. I’ll sell some counterfeit, just to sell. And smell Chanel. Faux or not. I’m jonesing for a sale. And I am jonesing for some Chanel hard core. Or a god damn old fashioned bank robbery. Dear Chanel, it’s me Margaret, please let branch 36 get robbed. By Colonel Mustard, with a candlestick, in the God damn bank library.  Hey Big T, is there a bank library? I wasn’t paying attention during that chapter because I was drawing kitties saying, “Meow”

New Job: Day 3

Day Three

Today was all about my hair. It was long and flowy, the curl did hold so well, so it was really hard for me to think about much else. Big T ate her usual over sized super seck Fast food, and Beige 1-3 slurped on Mountain Dew all day. What the fuck is up with the mother fucking Mountain Dew?

New Job Day 2

Day 2

Have you ever tried learning something simple and no matter how hard you try, you just cannot comprehend? (Says the girl who cannot get a legitimate Addy scrip.) This ain’t no thang when it’s hard things like physics, or playing the accordion, or dressing for church. But when its simple things that you know you should understand and don’t, I think it’s your brain telling you: you just aren’t made for it. Sort of like a short girl flawlessly pulling off a maxi dress or a fat girl pulling off a string bikini. You just can’t. At first it’s almost funny.  You can be adding 2+2 and you just can’t figure it out like your brain is on some sort of candid camera show. Then someone gives you the answer of 4 and then re-asks the same question two seconds later and you not only don’t know it, you don’t remember the answer just told to you two seconds ago. I would assume I had some sort of learning disability if I didn’t know better in 80 million other things. The life of a lead something-or-other is hard, homes. Later in class, as we were doing faux banking things together on our computers, I sort of got lost and just skipped ahead with the reasoning that this isn’t a real bank, who cares, and who will notice. Mother fucking son of a bitch, apparently the bank, faux or not, is not the place to cheat or cut corners. When Big T came around (the trainer) she of course was jumbled by my mistakes, which I of course did not admit that I just skipped over shit because it’s my modus operandi to cut as many corners as possible, and then if someone notices, to just play dumb. I feel like I get an adequate punishment, because then people think I’m dumb as a box of hair, and learn to especially hate me when I pull out my lip gloss.

We were not served lunch today. I was fine with that, even if it meant eating my own hair in a 105 degree car in the parking lot. But before I could sneak out to my car to drink my water and eat my Aleve, I was given directions to Taco Bell as well as Arby’s. I hate myself… mostly for thanking these fools rather than just telling them I didn’t get to wear a men’s medium extra small by eating old beef on a bun, or old kitty on a taco. So I went to Bigby’s and tried not to cry off my eye makeup in frustration, as I watch my personality being tucked away in a nilla envelope. (It’s Nilla like the wafer, right?) But then I realized I didn’t wear any eye makeup in a lame attempt to be more liked by Beige #1, Beige #2, the nebbish, and Big T.  And that made me cry harder.

After lunch it was more faux banking that I didn’t really understand because of, you know, my disorder. That being the inability to understand anything exacting. Or anything tedious. Or anything that requires lots of sitting. Or anything taught by a woman wearing a men’s mahogany oxford, guzzling a Mountain Dew. Or let’s be real-- anything that does not allow me to wear god damn sleeveless dresses! I guess if the dress code was opened up a little more, I may have an easier time coping with my horse shit boring ass life as a lead something-or-other. 

Men aren't always stupid. Just sometimes.

I hate when people use the generalization or stereo type that men are stupid. I mean, a lot of them are--but a lot of women are dumb assholes too.
I have two examples that occurred this week that illustrate that it is normal for people to think men are ra-tards, and also accept it. Big shocker, both took place  at work, aka a breeding ground for strong idiotic opinions based on the simple life experience of a bunch of rubes.  Example number one: a co-worker was telling a long drawn out story with too many personal details (unfortunately none were interesting) about her nebbish husband NEVER talking about his feelings. This was completely accepted chucked up to, the is a man, not a woman who cries and talks too much." First of all, she made it very clear that he NEVER spoke about his feelings. As in, NEVER. As is in no feelings, on no topics, as in he is clearly a social ra-tard, and if this is truly the case he shouldn't get "man" free card, he should probably get some serious counselling, and I don't know, maybe be put to sleep like an old family dog. Also, I am a (stunningly gorgeous) woman and I hardly sit around all the time telling personal tidbits to anyone who will listen while hysterically sobbing.
Example two: in regards to selling and increasing business, a man boss gave the advice to "just go ahead and really sell to men. They are so stupid. They come into the store with their heads hung--they don't even know why they are there." In many cases men are easy to sell to. But not always because they are stupid, but because they often don't want a lot of details, and usually come to the mall for something specific. I have not come across many men that come to the mall in a depressed stupor with amnesia of why they even exist. Except maybe that homeless looking man that wears a backpack and sprays Chanel No. 5 in down his pants.
And to disprove "all men are stupid and that's ok" I will use my own real life example. My. Feller.  He is a better dresser than I am. He not only picks out and shops for his own clothing, he also washes, dry cleans, or irons properly. He also puts away his clothing in an organized fashion. He does not pair an old jersey with sweat pants and call it a day. In fact, that's more of the outfit I'd wear.
He also is a better cook than I am, and I can hold my own. He eats vegetables, can bake from scratch, and doesn't just grill a giant piece of meat and serve it with a side dish of SunChips. My dad does that, and not because he is a stupid man, just because he is a simple and lazy human being.
My feller shops for gifts for his family and friends, sends cards to his Grandma, and never forgets to write a thank-you. This may make him a rare bird, but this includes man and women! And why shouldn't we view this as more normal, than a man (or woman) who is a piece of shit but gets away with it because apparently manners and attention to even miner details is womanly
In conclusion, men aren't stupid because they are men, and the ones that are worthless hunks of junk, shouldn't get away with asshole ways of life. And most importantly, Brandon, I love you!

New Job Day 1

Day 1

I am the type of girl that doesn't believe in font restrictions. I also have relatively thin arms and am bitter towards those who don’t, that cause a mandatory sleeve policy in most “professional” dress codes. I am not offended by your flabby arms in any other way-- it just hinders me from doing what I want. You understand. So now my perfectly tailored, on-trend dress, (most certainly professional and appropriate) is prohibited, while you sit in your frumpy, pilled, miss matched, twin set, with polyester pull on pants that drape on the ground almost completely concealing your dingy little flat, that from 10 feet away make it apparent to me you consistently wear them wet and mildew-y. And now look at that mess of a run-on sentence you made me write.

          Hi, I’m Jennifer.  This is my first day, lead something-or-other, Tecumseh branch 36.  Former abused over worked diva. And this is my new life as seen by my gorgeous green eyes, and processed through my gorgeously misunderstood brain.

Day one in a complete career change isn't scary, it’s boring. The butterflies in my stomach are an overdose of aderall that I thought I’d need. And people who say it’s exciting, or that they are so proud of you for making the change and “taking the plunge”, are really referring to people who quit an intense job to follow their dreams and passions. Not someone who was fired at a shit job, and took the first job because society still isn’t ready to accept me enjoying my summer on unemployment while I write funny little stories. The big life lesson for the world should be: when you’re a kid (through about college age,) the world encourages you to do whatever, no matter how fucking unrealistic it is, or how completely incapable you actually are to do it.  Then you become an adult and suddenly the best you can do is a simple job because it’s stable, or has “good” hours. I thought I have been doing a pretty good job of proving I have many talents and capabilities, but apparently what I have proved is that entry level positions with pay cuts is my new lot in life. Kids (through college) have a free reign on creativity and self expression, but as soon as you are a “professional” a colored pen or a witty tort can get you killed. Or maybe these are just issues in the environment I have found myself in…bad fit? Or as “they” would say, “not a match in skill set?” *premature spoiler alert* What. The. Fuck. Am. I. Doing?

I am an educated grown up that has social graces, and the proper etiquette. But I also am in no way embarrassed to say, I watch way too much Netflix, including the occasional Saved By the Bell. I like talking with an accent, and I don’t really understand ObamaCare because I’m lazy. I think slacks are for yard work or sick days, but would go to Meijer in my pajamas.

Anyway, back to today. I drove way too far in the country to sit in the basement of a computer lab/faux teller window. A far cry from a room filled with makeup and candy sprinkling the tables with color and pizzazz everywhere. I didn’t get $1000 worth of cosmetic swag. I got an ill-fitting man-ish polo that agitated the room full of non extra smalls. Note to self, next time; choose a big shirt to make everyone else feel comfortable.

So blee blah bloo, paper work, which is boring for all jobs. Then a plain girl ran me, and the other plain girls, and lone nebbish through some computer crap too fast, as you’d imagine any girl with an inverted bob pulled back with a barrette would do. On to lunch!  Meet over in the other conference room for Philly cheese steak pizza and cans of mountain Dew!  My $200 shoes aren’t professional?! This shit ass lunch ain’t professional! What’s professional about the di-a-beat-is, and clinical obesity? There are many other classier ways to eat gross. Hell, give me $1.35 and I’ll get a Sun Chip and generic wafer cookies from the vendy. I have spent all day trying to wrap my mind around lunch… I can no longer discuss it. I will say, (corporate) America, this is why you are angry you cannot wear my men’s medium extra small shirt.

Sports

Sports. Everybody wants me to write a blog about how much I hate sports. But I don't hate sports. I just don't totally love them. Mostly because I don't understand the following things:
1. The costumes. I don't like dressing like everyone else. And sport colors are always horrid.
2. Sports take too long. I don't like doing anything for 4 hours. 
3. The constant yelling. It is perfectly normal to loudly hum, and turn that into a raucous chant 49 times a game.
4. The extreme emotions. This is either extreme anger if they lose, or a play goes wrong, or extreme happiness if they win or score. I don't feel either of these emotions for anything, so I am curious how this works. Is it real?
5. Why are sports only for men? I mean I know women sport teams exist, but no one cares. I mean, I don't either, but still it seems old fashioned. I guess I sorta liked those girl gymnasts when I was a kid…despite the fact they all had mushroom haircuts and no boobs.
6. The scoring. Sometimes there are lots of scores (basketball) and I don't believe a true winner has been determined. Or sometimes there is hardly any scores, and I still think a true winner cannot be determined.
7. Sports casters. They are always old men with leathery faces and dry brittle hair.
8. Coaches. How do they stay so interested and invested?

Guns

 Guns protect people, guns kill people and guns are hobbies. I am going to talk about guns. When I was a kid, I a had a step brother who was obsessed with all things army. Especially guns. We would have to take trips to Army surplus stores like they were toy stores. His hobby was imposed on the rest of us kids, even my sister and I. Due to the fact I was born an adult and knew he was mentally ill, and the fact I was a GIRL, I was not amused with this forced upon past time. He had toy guns, he had real guns. He would shoot his real ones in the yard, or worse yet, shoot his fake one at us, indoors, all the time as part of a charming game he made up called..."guns." Guns, the game, was basically hide and seek with a twist. You would hide, with your gun, and he would come find you and shoot you. You could try and defend yourself and shoot him first, but that wasn't possible in his mind.  The game itself was painful enough, so we would just go along with whatever he said. We were normal, he was a whack-a-doo. Sometimes he would make us carry other army equipment. Maybe a shovel, maybe a canteen. All heavy and real. Except the guns. I hated this game because like I said, I am a GIRL. So one day I got really, really brave. I tied ribbons to my gun and adorned it with Lisa Frank unicorn stickers. Then instead of my gov't issued shovel or canteen  (literally) I loaded my military belt with my Loves Baby Soft, and my sister's bottle of Eclamation. (A very mature, very strong drugs store brand perfume from the early 90's) When psycho brother came to "kill" me, I pulled out my perfume and aimed it, while proclaiming, "I don't believe in guns!"
So as a kid, I had sense about me that made me superior. Fast forward to adulthood in 2013, and people still want to play with their guns like a bunch of psychos. Look, I am not trying to eliminate guns, I am too lazy to care that much one way or another--but what grinds my ass is people who want their gun hobby no matter what, and would be willing to fight to the death in a mere argument about guns that still in no way is actually going to take their mf'ing gun away from them. It's just your freaking hobby, you ass clowns! If someone told me that my hobby of making homemade greeting cards from magazine clippings, ransom letter style, was killing people, sure I'd be sad to have to give it up, but I would do it to save a life. Even if it is my right to cut out pictures of Honey Boo Boo and glitter and glue it to construction paper--I'd at least be willing to discuss the alternatives.
And yes this comparison is the same. Exactly the same.