Thursday, February 27, 2003

Tales From a Shit Job

To say I'm overqualified for my job would be like saying that Moglia has a hair or two, or is a little bit grouchy sometimes. When people (meaning co-workers) find out somehow that I'm "in school", they tend to respond with a: "Oh, how nice! Where do you go to school?", expecting me to say "Oh, Quincy Community College..." or something. When I raise an eyebrow and wryly say: "Oh, I'm finishing up my Master's degree in a program that's a cooperative between Emerson College and Tufts University...we take Professional Communication and Marketing coursework at Emerson and Medicine and Public Health classes at Tufts.", they tend to respond with an open mouth and eventually chirp something like "Well, good for you!"

Yeah. Good for ME. Now, is there any more brainless busy work I can do?

It's my job to enter all the outgoing subrogation liens (don't worry if you don't know what those are, it doesn't really matter...) and other outgoing certified mail into the database and see to it that they get to Mail Services. It's mostly liens, but sometimes checks or what have you get thrown into the mix as well.

So, a co-worker from the national department (I'm in the "local" department), comes up to me with a check that needs to go out. "I just need to make sure it gets out. Will it go out today? If it won't go out today, it needs to be locked up..." (that's standard procedure for checks, btw...) "It's very important that it be taken care of. Be very careful with it. Just so you know, it's for a hundred thousand dollars."

I sat there staring at her, completely dumbfounded. Apparently, someone had left the "A retard sits here" sign by my cubicle again. I quickly began formulating replies:

"Ok. Just so you know, your skirt is 2 sizes too small."

"Ok. Just so you know, you're going to spend the rest of your life working in that cubicle in this office until you slowly go crazy."

"Ok. Huh. A blue sweater with a brown skirt, pantyhose, AND brown socks with black shoes. What an interesting fashion statement you're making there."

"Ok. Wow, that's almost enough to pay off all the loans I have for my expensive graduate education at one of the nation's top-rated schools. Is that sweater from K-mart?"

I bit my tongue, of course. But eventually 2 more people came by to make sure I understood the grave importance of the matter. Gads, haven't these simpletons ever seen a big check before? Hayseed suburbanite fucktards.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to jump up and down with an open bottle of Hawaiian Punch.

Tuesday, February 25, 2003

E-mail of the Day

If gummy bears ever try to take over the world I wouldn't be able to resist them!
A lady brought in a whole bunch of them and I just can't stay away! I can't! They
took my free will away from me. I feel helpless!

Bahahahahaha! Those crazy Egyptians!

Monday, February 24, 2003


I'm tired, so unbearably tired. My eyes are filled with sand. Not soft, southern sand, either; but cold sharp gritty New England sand.
I don't see the point. What is the point? I'm not sure what today is. I don't know how I got here, I only have some vague recollection of sleepwalking through enough of life to get to where I am today. And where is that, exactly? The same unquestionably bland, cardboard reality that it was before I left point A.

My life feels like a kind of dreamless, half-existence punctured by the occasional shot of reality. Is this just how it IS after a time? Am I supposed to feel half-asleep, or is it just a way to mercifully remove myself from this horrid routine of typetypetypetypetype? Am I wrong to want more? To have expected it, even? Was I silly to think that I was somehow destined for greater things than this?

My job now is less compelling than the one I left umpteen years ago to go to college and find a better future. So, almost 2 degrees I am? WTF?

(And it's cold and I hate my hair and I don't like my outfit and I think I've gained 5 pounds and I ate a bagel for breakfast and I have to find notes from Epidemiology for my friend who's taking it this semester (but I got a freaking B so I don't know how helpful they'll be...) and my water tastes sour and I miss my family and I miss my friends and I don't know where any of my stuff IS anymore and I don't want to be here and I don't want to go home and I don't want to go shopping and I don't want to go to the MFA and the week stretches out endlessly and I don't know if I can make it but I have to write a lit review this weekend anyway and I think I'm starting to overuse this writing style....)

Yeah, I'm in a mood, alright. I probably should stop listening to the new Beck CD. I think it's exacerbating things. Shut up, depressed freak!

Friday, February 21, 2003


The phone rings just as the picture you've been waiting for is starting to load, and it's your boyfriend and he's not where he's supposed to be, but that's Ok because it's better that he be where he actually is. So you roll your eyes but smile, because it's good that he has his priorities straight (for the most part). He says there's been a change of plans for tonight; and you hate changes of plans because they're never good--no one EVER says "change of plans, I just got two tickets to see the Dave Matthews Band, and they're no longer horribly radio-friendly and overplayed"--it's always things like "we have to bring my 10-month old along, so we'll be dining at Ruby Tuesdays and forget having anything to drink". And you sigh and roll your eyes because you liked the plans the way they were, you liked the suburban restaurant and the suburban mall and the suburban movie, in all it's tiredness and lack of creativity you found the idea of it all strangely comforting. And now you have to change your clothes, because your baggy jeans and tank top and sweater won't do for eating downtown. And your boyfriend says "hey, we're all going cas. totally cas. don't worry about it." But you can't not worry about it, you HAVE to change, so you take off your baggy jeans and your sweater and your tank top even though you liked the way the men on the bus had looked at you in your tank top. You pull on fishnets and a long skirt and a black top and change your bra because your yellow and white one showed through the black top. And now your bra and panties don't match but you don't feel like pulling off the fishnets to put on matching panties. And you don't mind so much, this change of plans. But it makes you think about the way things used to be, the way YOU used to be, before you were this girl who went to suburban restaurants and suburban malls and suburban movies; when you were this girl who was at Man Ray or Karma or Axis every weekend and took a cab home at 4 am after hanging in your friend's Newbury Street apartment after the club. You remember the people you hung out with, and the guy who liked you but you didn't like him in that way but he would pull you on his lap and you trusted him, because he was a good guy. But then he talked smack about a friend of yours, said she was a slut and led him on; and you remember the times he pulled you on his lap and the times you danced with him in your bra and fishnet top at Man Ray and you wonder if he means you; if you're the slut. And you feel a little sad that you don't talk to any of those people any more, just a little sad. Then you look at your watch and remember that it's time to pick up your boyfriend at the T station; and you think of him telling you where to find his extra car key and him letting you drive his car whenever you wanted to go somewhere and he couldn't; and the key to his apartment is cool and new against your skin, and you love his friends; not just like them to get drunk or high with but really dig them as people; and you look at your newly-colored hair, and it's too dark but it'll fade and you'll get a color you like better; and you like where you are. So you smile. Really, really smile.

Wednesday, February 19, 2003

The World Owes Me a Living....

People annoy the crap out of me. Where, I ask you, is it written that one is deserving of automatic wondermous butt-licking service everytime one walks into a place of business? How did people come to acquire the enormous sense of entitlement that tells them that they are deserving of such treatment?

One of my cubi-neighbors was just complaining about the state of the grocery store during the BLIZZARD the other day. (I think it was Stop & Shop?) "They only had three registers open. Can you believe that?!? Only three. And the lines were backed up all over the place....!"

Never did it occur to this woman that it's neither the store's fault nor problem that she and the rest of her suburbanite hayseed buds felt the need to pick the aisles clean of TP and Twinkies during a snow emergency. What, they're supposed to have extra cashiers there at all times just in case it snows? Gimme a fucking break. You want groceries during a snowstorm? Well, there are gonna be lines, chica. Long lines. And don't go complaining that the local pizza joint and Yee's Village (specializing in Chinese cuisine) are taking too long to deliver your large make-my-ass-fatter-extra-lard special. You're not the only person on the planet, and there are 348 extra-fat-ass specials that have to be delivered by one shivering guy in a Dodge Dart before they get to yours. Suck it up.

Maybe I'm a sympathizer because I spent so many years in retail and restaurant hell. But this customer-service thing has just gone too damn far! Who's responsible for all this 'the customer is always right' crap?!? Yes, of course it's preferable when everyone goes out of their way to make your retail experience better. But do you want to pay the extra cash for your Dunkin Donuts that it'd take to pay employees enough to give a rat's ass? Hell, I don't. They can glare at me, leer at me, do a funny little dance for all I care. Just don't burn my bagel. For their five or six or seven bucks an hour, I just want a loogie-free coffee that's hot. Hot loogie-free coffee. That could be their motto.

Monday, February 17, 2003


No one in the world is at work today. Except me. And the other Blue Cross martyrs.

This morning has been defined by a series of announcements from co-workers regarding the impending snow.

"It's not supposed to snow hard till 1-ish."

"I can't even SEE across the Neponset River! It's snowing SO hard!"

"They got 2 feet in Maryland!" (I've heard this one numerous times, and for some reason it always annoys me. I want to say "You don't KNOW Maryland! I know Maryland!")

"They're closed at Traveler's."

"They're closed at Safety."

"They might keep us all day because they know they'll have to close tomorrow."

"We'll be out of here by noon."

It is snowing now, at long last. Thousands of flakes swirling in a strange, ominous beauty. I've tried to call Sean about 27 times to ask if he can pick up some stuff at the store before the really bad stuff starts. (No, not bread, milk, and TP! All-important COFFEE, thank you very much! Can't live without THAT!)

I have to say, I'm going to be damn disappointed if I have to come into work tomorrow. I've already formed tentative plans in my head to crash out on the couch with Sean, catch up on some DVD's and finish the bottle of Merlot we uncapped on Friday night. Right now, I just can't imagine anything more heavenly than being snowed in with him; twirling his hair around my fingers and coaxing the cat to come sit with us. Mmmmm.

Thursday, February 13, 2003

New Kid on the Block

Hey ya'll, join me in giving a shout out to my good bud Fady, who's just jumped on the blogging bandwagon!

Egyptian men do it in the sand.

Wocka Wocka Wocka

If I were going to have a red-hot love affair with a muppet, I think I'd choose Fozzie Bear.

Some people would choose Kermit the Frog, but not me. Love him to death, but he's too whiny and simpering. And that co-dependant relationship with the Pig? Hells, no! I'm not getting in the middle of that!

Some would pick Animal. I'd pass on that, too. His complete lack of control would make him haphazard and self-gratifying; two traits I can't stand in a lover.

Nope. It'd definitely be Fozzie Bear. He'd be warm and cuddly, and if nothing else was going as planned, he could at least keep me laughing.

Plus, I dig the tie.

Wednesday, February 12, 2003

Strange Form of Self-Punishment

I already know that the little lunch counter downstairs sucks. Everything I've ever bought there (save for the homemade chocolate chip cookies) is a puddle of flavorless grease crap. So when I buy something to eat there anyway, and it sucks, I have only myself to blame. I recognize this.

Still, why would you put my buffalo chicken wrap; fully assembled; complete with lettuce, tomato, and blue cheese dressing, on the grill so the lettuce gets brown and the dressing gets ooky?

That's just wrong, man.

Monday, February 10, 2003

Slap Dat 'Ho!!!

Since I had a day off today, I'll leave everyone with a fun activity for tomorrow.

How 'bout some Ho-slappin' action?


Thanks to Brandy for the link!
Breakin' Out!

There's a water main break here in Quincy. Everyone, please join me in a silent prayer that this break keeps up so our building gets shut down for the day. I know it's a long shot, but I feel like I deserve some sort of recompense for missing out on the 1pm dismissal snow day on Friday (I was working for free in our downtown office...).

So, all together now....aaaaahh-oooohmm......aaaaahhh-ooooooohmm.....

Thursday, February 06, 2003

Right Now... fingers are cold.

...I'm listening to the Trainspotting soundtrack.

...I wish I had oatmeal.

...I'm happily in love.

...I'm wearing new pants from H & M.

...I'm kind of sweating over what Community Relations has in store for me tomorrow.

...I'm wicked happy that I don't have to come all the way to Quincy tomorrow!

...I have to pause my CD to refill my stapler. ("it's a Swingline stapler...")

...some more coffee would be nice.

...I wish winamp didn't crash my system so I could reinstall it and play mp3's. parents are preparing for a cruise, during which my mom will wear tacky shoes.

...Brandy's on a train dreading having to work.

...Tivy is probably walking around the apartment meowing for food to anyone who'll listen.

...I don't remember what day my graduation ceremony is.

...I wish I had a muffin. desk is adorned with 6 postcards, a pop-up ghost, a mardi gras necklace, two snowman that were left behind by the previous occupant, and a pic of Sean and me in our Halloween getups. (No snakes...)

...I have new contacts and can't believe how well I can see.'s 19 degrees out, according to my computer.

...I'm glad my name isn't "Ladidas".

...I should really get back to work.

Wednesday, February 05, 2003


(Sorry, no link...)

Hip-Hop mogul calls for Pepsi boycott

Angered at Pepsi for placing foul-mouthed Ozzy Ozbourne in a Superbowl commercial only months after yanking rapper Ludacris for his vulgar language, hip-hop mogul Russell Simmons said yesterday he plans a boycott against the soft drinks giant, accusing Pepsi of applying a double standard in a "wack" (hip-hop slang for displeasing) manner.

"The boycott is being called in response to Pepsi dropping Ludacris as spokesman and subsequently picking up the Osbournes, who are no less vulgar," a Simmons spokeman said.

A spokesman for PepsiCo Inc. said the Ludacris controversy was an unfortunate experience.

--Reuters via Boston Metro.

It should be noted that my laughter is only to prevent me from crying my proverbial eyes out. Is this what we have come to? I almost want to cut this article out and save it so future generations can see how ridiculous our speech has become, except that then I'd have to shamefacedly admit that I was actually a part of this generation. God, I'm ashamed enough to admit that I'm from the same species as someone who would try and start a boycott by using the word "wack" to describe the company.

Could you imagine if everyone spoke that way?

Annoying Reporter: "Ghandi--why are you on a hunger strike?"

Ghandi: "'Cuz da way dis world is be WACK, yo!"

I laughed like an ass on the T at this blurb. I'm not sure what I thought was funnier--the use of "wack" or the explanation of what it meant.

Amanda laughed like an ass (hip-hop slang for jerk who laughs openly at something no one else sees or knows is funny, thereby appearing crazy at the very least) on the T at this blurb.

Oh, and one more thing: for all that he's a so-called "hip-hop mogul"; I sure as hell don't know who this Russell Simmons guy is.

Tuesday, February 04, 2003


That it doesn't work. Hmmm....

Shouldn't there be some perks involved in sleeping with a web developer-type person?
New Feature

I finally got around to getting some comments goin' on here. So now, I have to worry about the anger of the masses overtaking me. Or, the 3 people who read my blog overtaking me. Either way, it could get ugly.

Talk back! Forget what your mom told ya!
All Buggy-Eyed

I lost my glasses this past weekend. They just fell out of my pocket while I was walking around Harvard Square. (Now, bear in mind that I've been wearing them as a regular thing simply because I just plain didn't have the time last semester to go for an eye exam and get new contacts. I finally had the exam last week, and I'm set to pick up the new contacts tomorrow night.) So, to avoid being completely blind, I was forced to dig out the old contacts, super-duper clean 'em, and "make do" with those till Wednesday. Sounds simple enough, right? Well, the right contact was more than a little suspect--I think it may have a giant amoeba living on it. I had an extra spare contact tucked away, but I was pretty sure it was the left one. Sean asked if I could wear two left ones, ya know; to avoid catching dysentary of the eyeball; but I refused--that'd give me a headache! And the 'scripts are WAAAAY too different! So, I figured me and Mr. Amoeba could learn to get along.

Cut to last night, when I ripped my left contact in half while rubbing it like a good little contact lens wearer (which, incidentally, I NEVER do--the rubbing, that is--precisely because it tends to rip contacts!!!). Good thing I had a spare left contact!

Except it was really a "right" contact. Oops. My bad.

So, this morning, I'm making do with two right contacts. I see varied numbers of things. Sometimes one, sometimes 5. Ain't life a kick?

Monday, February 03, 2003

Lost Cause

Your sorry eyes cut through the bone
They make it hard to leave you alone
Leave you here wearing your wounds
Waving your guns at somebody new

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

There's too many people you used to know
They see you coming they see you go
They know your secrets and you know theirs
This town is crazy; nobody cares

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause

There's a place where you are going
You ain't never been before
No one left to watch your back now
No one standing at your door
That's what you thought love was for

Baby you're lost
Baby you're lost
Baby you're a lost cause

I'm tired of fighting
I'm tired of fighting
Fighting for a lost cause


Some things that people say to you haunt you for years afterwards, slithering out of subconsciousness and seeping gradually into your conscious thought until they become part of your everyday life; of how you assess yourself. One such thing for me was something a then-boyfriend once said to me:

"Love is wasted on you. My love is wasted on you. I could never, ever love you enough to make up for how much you hate yourself!"

You can't "fix" someone. You can say that till you're blue in the face and still want to fix someone, or want to be fixed. I'm still not really sure if I wanted him to "fix" me; to paste together the pieces of who I had been, who I was, and who I was trying to be and hand them back to me in a perfectly crafted image of how he saw me. And if he had, would it have looked the way I would have wanted it to? Does it ever?

He was right. It's nearly impossible to love someone who swims in that kind of pool of self-loathing. Believe me, I've tried. God, I've tried to love them all. The ones who hate themselves and don't know it, the ones who do and do, and even one who silmutaneously hated himself and me. I don't recommend any of those scenarios, especially the latter. And God knows I've put enough people who've tried desperately to love me, to save me even; through my own personal hell to know that it's not a fun thing to go through.

And in the end, the old adage is true. You're useless to the world until you develop some kind of self-love, or at the very least self-acceptance. You can't claw your way back to the edge of normalcy without it.

So, after awhile, you learn how to save yourself, if you can ever, EVER be convinced that you're worth it. And you learn to surround yourself with people who'll remind you on the days you forget.

But, I think the scariest thing about trying to save someone else is that, every once in awhile, you can't remember if you knew how to swim in the first place.