Archive for the 'yeah, that happened' Category

Pee monsters

I used to think kids were really ridiculously cute. That’s why I became a preschool teacher. I wanted to have 10 children in my class: 5 boys and 5 girls. Now, I’d prefer zero.

I don’t know if it’s worse because I happen to teach a bunch of poor kids or what, but every day is a nightmare. A daymare. One kid cries constantly — it amazes me how many tears can come out of that little body — while other boys fight over who gets to rub Barbie’s smooth private parts. Worse yet, this one kid, Jamarcus, always “accidentally” grazes against my boobs. And honestly, he looks a little too old to be in preschool to begin with. I swear I saw him sitting behind the wheel of an old Camaro idling outside my house. Creepy shit.

Still, the absolute worst part about my job is getting peed on. Happens at least once a day. These kids aren’t allowed in the bathroom by themselves yet, and they can’t seem to control their peeing organs. Although their moms always assure me they’re all perfectly potty-trained…

Anyway, I’ve resorted to getting all my clothes from the Salvation Army now, because I know I’ll be throwing them out in a matter of a few weeks anyway. At first I would throw out a peed-on article of clothing right away, but now I don’t throw anything out until it’s been peed on 5 times. And that’s disgusting, I know, but I really just don’t like going to the Salvation Army anymore. One of the homeless men who hangs out there asked me out, and I’m afraid I’ll get stabbed or something if I turn him down.

The flaw in this system, of course, was that the peed-on clothing made my whole apartment smell like piss. My roomates thought we had a cat or raccoon or some mysterious nighttime peeing animal problem. I even chipped in to pay for one of those pest control guys to come and set up a trap. I wasn’t about to admit that it was human kid pee–and it was on my clothes. The woefully imperfect solution I’ve come up with is to throw the peed-on pieces of clothing in one of those big ass ziploc plastic airtight bags. That way only I smell like piss. And that’s all a preschool teacher can hope for, right?


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“A Dog Walk To Remember”

First of all, I’d like to thank Hollywood for putting the delusional idea in my head that becoming a dog-walker was a good idea. Special thanks go to classics 101 Dalmations, In Her Shoes (a slutty depressed illiterate Cameron Diaz.. so convincing.. the acting job of a lifetime), and Must Love Dogs.

It could be that I started out biting off way more than I could chew. There is definitely no lack of opportunity for a dog walker in NYC. The first day I put my sign up in the local coffee shop advertising “A Dog Walk To Remember”, I got around 50 calls. One New Yorker, who must have really been in a hurry, missed the “Dog” part of my sign and called asking when and where the showing was so he could come and watch the only movie that can make him cry.  Some of the callers requested references. Of course I have none… who would think you would need to have references to walk someone’s dogs. Well, I lost those clients. Good riddance, I thought.

Maybe those snobby callers were right, though. Maybe I’m not even fit to walk dogs. My second week on the job, tragedy kind of struck. Ruffles, the bijoun freeze (that is totally the wrong spelling.. I really should know how to spell my clients’ names–just writing this is showing I need to retire my dogwalking leashes pronto) stepped on a nail! She started howling and moaning and I had NO idea what was wrong. I thought she was having a heart attack, or something! She just slumped down and started making those terrible noises. I had no idea what to do. I acted on instinct, jumped in a cab with all 5 dogs, told the driver to rush me to the nearest hospital and 5 minutes later I’m running into the emergency room holding 4 leashes in one hand and Ruffles scooped up in my other arm. I was ridiculously out of place and I looked pretty damn stupid. People were staring me and the 5 dogs up and down, and I felt like I’m sure those people who have the ‘naked in school’ dreams feel. It didn’t help that one little girl squealed, “Look mommy, Cruella Deville.”   “First of all, little girl, these are NOT dalmations. Second of all, are you color blind? Because my hair may have some bad roots right now, but it is not half white and half black, thankyouverymuch.”  I didn’t actually say that, but rather came up with it that night in bed as I went over and over the terribly embarrassing moments of the day.

Anyways, soon a doctor came over with one of those disapproving father-like looks to see what the hell I was doing with 5 dogs in his emergency room. He must have felt really bad for me or something, because instead of kicking me out, he calmed me down, found the nail in her paw, extracted it, and told me next time to go to a vet. Damn, just writing this makes my cheeks flare up red again. I’m still so embarrassed! And Ruffles’ mom wasn’t so happy about having her “baby in the hospital without her knowing.” So yeah, it was a good idea while it lasted, but I don’t think I’m cut out for being a dogwalker. More stressful than I thought. I’m going to start applying for a nice, boring, relaxing desk job.


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worst job interview ever

a few weeks ago i got a call back from men’s wearhouse saying i should come in for an interview that friday at 10. which sounded great except we were all supposed to go out for my buddy’s birthday on thursday. i figured what the hell, i’ll go out, just have a drink or two, and head home early. gotta be fresh for my interview. i had already practiced saying “you’re gonna like the way you look” in the mirror a bunch of times so i was practically a shoe in. to play it safe, i decided to wear my interview suit out on thursday, figuring the less shit i have to do friday morning the better.

friday morning, i wake up at 9:43. my head is fucking killing me. i have a text from my mom that says “good luck at burlington’s!” that bitch can never get anything straight. the men’s wearhouse is like 15 minutes away, so if i leave immediately i might just make it on time. thank god i wore my suit to bed. except wait a second, part of my suit is all wet. the part of my suit that happens to cover the thing that i pee out of. i try convincing myself it might just be sweat, but really i know it’s piss. i have no time and no backup suit, though, so i just spray a shitload of binaca on my crotch and head out the door.

i show up like 20 minutes late — i drove to the goddamn burlington coat factory by accident — and the guy is not pleased. plus, i look like a pile of shit.

“tell us, mr. johnson,” he says, “why do you think you’re a good fit for this position?”

“well,” i say, “that’s a good question. a very good question. to which my answer is, plenty of reasons. like, i’m good at doing things.” at this point i’m just saying words, any words, so i don’t throw up. “and i’m good at other things, too. as you’ll see on my resume.”

“you didn’t bring a resume,” he points out. shit.

next he shows me around the store and even starts teaching me how to size someone for a suit. maybe i still have a chance? seems impossible.

he’s using me as a practice model, which is fine, because it means i can just stand there and concentrate on not throwing up. when he shows me how to take the inseam, though, he notices that my crotch is still moist. maybe i overdid it with the binaca.

“what is this? is this… piss, mr. johnson? have you pissed yourself?”

i say no, don’t be crazy. it’s just sweat.

“your crotch sweats that much?”

“doesn’t everybody’s?”

“no. and frankly i don’t think i can afford to have a suit salesman walking around the store with a sweaty crotch. that’s just bad for business.”

“okay it’s not sweat,” i say in a last ditch effort. “it is piss. you were right the first time. well, piss and some binaca.”

“get out.”

i’m still waiting to hear back from them. meanwhile, i’ve lined up an interview at burlington for this friday.


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caught in the act

i go on facebook all the time at work. in between tasks, during tasks, instead of tasks. i feel like it gives my mind a chance to breathe (that is, it gives my eyes a chance to look at photos of hot chicks i don’t know that well). the other day, though, while i was looking at slutty halloween pictures, someone started facebook chatting me: my boss. “how’s that project coming along, tim?” my heart nearly dropped out of my asshole. i was caught, dead to rights. i knew i was an idiot to accept my boss’s friend request! i figured the best thing to do was just not to answer. “come on, tim, don’t be rude. i can see you’re at your computer.” and he could. fuck. i decided, like an idiot, to perpetuate the lie: “Oops, this is actually Tim’s mom. I thought I was on my account! Timmy must have forgotten to sign off when he went to work this morning. By the way, he loves his job and he’s just crazy about that boss of his! Who is this, by the way?” my boss saw right through it. “how dumb do you think i am, tim?” “not dumb at all. very smart, actually, sir,” i said, hoping some ass-kissing might save me late in the game. “if i catch you on facebook again, you’re fired.” and that is why i now go invisible every morning before i go to work.


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Day 3 on the Job: A Documented Orgy

When you wade through all the bullshit of my job description, what it basically boils down to is this: I’m a receptionist. Easy, right? I answer the phone. I transfer calls. (By the way, that took me three days to figure out). I try to enunciate my name so that the person on the receiving end does not call me “Gerald.” Because I’m a girl. Whatever, it’s all in a day’s work.

Know what’s NOT in a day’s work? Having to deal with the approximately 85 percent of calls from people who are fucking nuts.

Day three. I’ve finally figured out how to check my voicemail. I’m feeling pretty good. The phone rings. I answer. He even gets my name right. And then this:

“I’m calling because I was wondering if you develop film.”

I want to say, “Well sir, I’m new here, so I really haven’t a blazing idea, but I highly doubt it.” But before I can, he adds:

“Look, I just went on a honeymoon with my wife, and we REALLY would like to get this film developed. We were in Bali—just beautiful sunrises, gorgeous hikes, and sunset cruises.”

“Well, congratulations,” I start, but he cuts in:

“And you know, we have about 500 photos, and it’s the two of us, and two other couples, and we were all fully consenting adults. I repeat, fully consenting.”


“And you know, it was just a really beautiful thing, there’s nothing shameful about what we did. We are all of legal age, on a honeymoon retreat, and—have you ever heard of hedonism? Everyone else has hung up on us when we mention it.”

Excellent. You can bet those photos include A) strawberry daiquiris in plastic cups. B) Togas heaped on the floor in wild abandon. C) Sex moves you’ve never heard of, but will be burned into your brain.

“Well, sir, why don’t I just take your name and number, look into that—I don’t think we have the darkroom capabilities for that just right now, but I’ll give you a call back?”

Yeah, right. A word of advice: If you’re planning on taking pictures of your wild orgy, it’s not a bad idea to invest in a digital camera. Because I don’t get paid enough for this.


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Why I No Longer Sell Knives

After being unemployed for months, I was absolutely thrilled when I finally got a call from a company named Vector Marketing. I had no idea what the company did, really, but I didn’t care. I just needed money. So when I showed up and learned that working for Vector Marketing meant selling Cutco knives door to door, I was, as you can probably imagine, a little surprised. But I took the job anyway, figuring I might as well at least make some money until a better offer came along. Sure, there was no real training, and sure, the salary was largely commission-based, but what did I care. I was employed, baby!

When I knocked on that first door with a briefcase full of knives in my hand, I felt totally unprepared. And pretty creepy.

“Hi, sir, I’m a sales representative from Vector Marketing, and I was wondering if you might be interested–”

“–Sorry, buddy. Already got plenty of shit I don’t need.”

And that’s how the first day went. Not one goddamn sale. Day two, I tried switching up my sales pitch:

“Hi, ma’am, are you happy with how your knives cut?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Oh. Well could you be happier with how your knives cut?”

“I guess?”

And I was in. Before she knew it, I was already midway through my demonstration of how easily Cutco knives slice through anything from celery to pepperoni. I felt like it was actually going well, too — she may even have been impressed. The sale was within my grasp. I was made for this job. When I finished slicing the last piece of pepperoni, though, I realized I had made large gashes all over this lady’s dining table. Fuck. I had forgotten to lay down the cutting board. I decided to put a positive spin on it.

“As you can see, even a dining table is no match for Cutco’s patented sharp-blade technology!”

I didn’t make the sale, and I didn’t ever make a sale. I guess marketing just wasn’t for me.


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Saddled with a crummy job

I’m a waitress at the Texas Roadhouse. That means every hour I have to do a humiliating dance for customers who are too busy stuffing their fat faces with greasy ribs to even watch. Not that I’d want them to watch, really, I guess. Whenever it’s someone’s birthday, we bring out this saddle and one of us has to do a vaguely sexual dance on it or around it or something — none of us really knows what to do with the saddle, honestly. Last week it was some little girl’s birthday, and even though I can’t imagine that a little girl would want to watch me do a sexy saddle dance, I had to do it. The thing was, I had a lot to drink the night before and I wasn’t feeling so hot. I started gyrating next to the saddle a little and before I knew it I was puking all over the floor. The birthday girl started to cry. My boss/dance captain/professional asshole, looking on from the sideline, gestured for me to continue. I did a few tap steps on the pukey floor but then I started to cry too. I ran off to the kitchen, a trail of vomit following behind me. Why haven’t I quit yet?

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