This is dedicated to all the workers out there.
I have been neglecting my blog for the past week (the Thanksgiving "holiday" took up all of my time). Plus, our computer is as old as time, so that didn't help the bloggin'. Lo siento, kids.
Ok, after seeing a commercial that I thought was hilarious, I decided to do an exposèe on this topic. (COPYRIGHT WARNING: THIS IS NOT MY IDEA, IT WAS OFF OF A NEW BOARDGAME: I'M JUST REVAMPING THE IDEA).
Ok: Things NOT to do on your first day at work:
1. Kick the boss.
Just don't do it. You don't bite the one who feeds you. Animals know it and so should you.
2. Sleep.
Sleepy time is not work time. People are going to think you have a drinking problem; get a good night sleep. Believe me....I am a big sleeper, so I know how tough this is.
3. Wear your hippie costume from the recent "Herb Exchange" at the local head shop.
Self explanatory. Don't do it. Unless you're working for the Head Shop or as a lobbyist for Students for a Sensible Drug Policy or the Federation of People Who Like To Dye Things.....don't wear your "I love Drugs and Alcohol" t-shirt.
4. Do not recite the verses to the theme song from Star Trek: Next Generation.
I learned this one the hard way.
Nerds unite!
5. Do not trash talk your dumbass coworkers.
There is plenty of time to diss those brainless, self-righteous people with whom you share workspace. The first day is not the time for this.
6. Don't eat other people's food in the fridge.
And definitely don't tell them about how great it was. Especially if it is chocolate or sandwich related. If it looks shady, it's fair game (in my opinion).
7. Don't photograph the infamous Black Book. Definitely don't hand it out, post it, send it out in a memo. If anything, you should keep it under lock and key under your bed AT HOME.
Black Book material should not be shared the first day. No. Don't do it.
8. Jell-o someone's stapler.
Clever idea. Beautiful for The Office, the television show, as seen on NBC, and its affiliates. Not acceptable for work use and definitely not for the first day of work.
9. Don't string all of the paper clips together.
This is a multi-faceted, very complex issue:
A. Come on. That's a bitchass move. Funny for a minute, I'll give ya that....but after a minute, it becomes weird.
B. Really? Your first day? You're gonna do that the first day?
C. At least act like you're busy. It's your first day, let's not piss anyone off.
Overall, it looks pretty, but it is not cool.
10. Find your university's rival and then pick a fight.
A. Rarely does anyone care about College Athletics after college.
B. NOT ON THE FIRST DAY.
C. You're gonna look like an idiot reciting all of the statistics from the last 3 seasons to someone who probably just happened to go to Big University.
D. If they did care, they probably wouldn't know anything about the sport, etc, nowadays.
E. You're gonna look like a tool.
11. Make out with the office hottie/stud.
Even if it is not the office hottie/stud (and just an available, loose-lipped person)...don't do it.
Probably best left to day number two. This is also correlated with the Number 7 previously mentioned. If you're gonna do it....do it in the coat closet (still wait for Day Number Two). Or do it on your lunch break (get a lunch out of it too).
12. Politics....religion....
That's an obvious thing not to mention on the first day. Especially if you're working for a big business, they are probably Republican and not interested in your feelings toward the oppressed minorities. They got scrilla to make.
Overall: Appearance and Behavior is key.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
BFF
My BFF, Kailey Burger just joined the bloggin' realm.
She already has me beat for followers (although my followers are definitely more loyal........maybe).
Anywho:
Shout-out:
http://kaileyburger.blogspot.com/
Check it out....she's very funny (and isn't long-winded like I am).
But, still Follow my blog as well.
She already has me beat for followers (although my followers are definitely more loyal........maybe).
Anywho:
Shout-out:
http://kaileyburger.blogspot.com/
Check it out....she's very funny (and isn't long-winded like I am).
But, still Follow my blog as well.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Shame, Shame, Shaaaaame
Any loyal readers of mine ever do the Walk of Shame? If not, you're missing out on one of the time honored traditions in America. I'm sure people do the Walk of Shame in Europe and Africa and Asia and the Americas, but we, as Americans have perfected it. I would even go as far as saying that the Midwesterners have perfected it for the rest of the United States. Here's the theory: Northerners never get caught doing the WoS because it's too cold that no one ever gets caught. For one, everyone (probably) wears North Face and ski gear, so people could be doing the WoS, and no one would notice because the clothing doesn't change. Here, an essential element to the WoS is the clothing. If you are in stilettos, thigh-high tights, black halter top and you mirror a football player with their smudges to keep the sun away (or whatever they do that smudging for).....all on a Sunday morning, you have just been initiated into the Walk of Shame. The point is: your makeup has seen better days and so have you.
Anyway, Northerners are not frequent WoShamers. Too cold.
Southerners: too classy. Or rich.
The coasts: to rich. Plus, I feel like the West Coast is so wealthy, everyone has a personal servant to run around picking them up at all hours of the night. The East Coast, people would probably just catch a cab. Or they would buy new clothes and throw them on. Plus, in busy places, no one would recognize you anyway, so thus, it is not the WoS.
Lastly, I have been the NYC (the only place I've ever been), where there are some SCARY people. These people look like aliens who just caught the stomach flu. Pretty frightening. If they can deal with that sickness, I am sure the WoS wouldn't faze them.
Midwesterners: people know you, you see people, rarely are there cabs, we don't have loads of clothes lying around, perfect conditions for the WoS.
I am a regular participant of the WoS. Even though it is with the Englishman, it is still the WoS when you meet your boyfriend's friends while heading out the door at oh six hundred hours on a Sunday. Why is it you never meet your boyfriend's friends or former lovers when you are in a formal gown? God, karma, Santa Claus (whoever controls things) et al has a funny, funny way of screwing around with our lives.
I love when you cross paths with someone else doing the WoS. Both of you know what's going on, both agree that it is best to give a small nod, then look down whilst walking. It isn't glorious, but it is an unmistakable bond.
The worst is when you are a regular WoShamer and then others, who apparently have a routine too, catch you on a weekly basis. I have bumped into a building mate of the Englishman for weeks now. At first, it was awkward. But then, as the weeks progressed, the mate of the Englishman would say, "Hey....Walk of Shame??"
Me: "You know it."
I am so classy.
Anyway, Northerners are not frequent WoShamers. Too cold.
Southerners: too classy. Or rich.
The coasts: to rich. Plus, I feel like the West Coast is so wealthy, everyone has a personal servant to run around picking them up at all hours of the night. The East Coast, people would probably just catch a cab. Or they would buy new clothes and throw them on. Plus, in busy places, no one would recognize you anyway, so thus, it is not the WoS.
Lastly, I have been the NYC (the only place I've ever been), where there are some SCARY people. These people look like aliens who just caught the stomach flu. Pretty frightening. If they can deal with that sickness, I am sure the WoS wouldn't faze them.
Midwesterners: people know you, you see people, rarely are there cabs, we don't have loads of clothes lying around, perfect conditions for the WoS.
I am a regular participant of the WoS. Even though it is with the Englishman, it is still the WoS when you meet your boyfriend's friends while heading out the door at oh six hundred hours on a Sunday. Why is it you never meet your boyfriend's friends or former lovers when you are in a formal gown? God, karma, Santa Claus (whoever controls things) et al has a funny, funny way of screwing around with our lives.
I love when you cross paths with someone else doing the WoS. Both of you know what's going on, both agree that it is best to give a small nod, then look down whilst walking. It isn't glorious, but it is an unmistakable bond.
The worst is when you are a regular WoShamer and then others, who apparently have a routine too, catch you on a weekly basis. I have bumped into a building mate of the Englishman for weeks now. At first, it was awkward. But then, as the weeks progressed, the mate of the Englishman would say, "Hey....Walk of Shame??"
Me: "You know it."
I am so classy.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
One Childhood Mem'ry
Per the suggestion from my lovely boyfriend (whom I've kept secret from my loyal readers until now), whose pseudonym will be.......the Englishman, suggested I write about the early years. He is not British, although I think his family's ancestry originates from the Great B. He wanted his pseudonym to be Barracuda, probably from the song "Ooh, Barracuda"...but I don't want to be too outlandish. Plus, it's my blog, I can pseudonym if I want to. Anywho, the Englishman wanted me to write about my childhood memories for my next blog post. I have A LOT of memories. Childhood and otherwise.
Let it be known, I was probably the funniest, most precocious child ever. I was very independent too, and bossy as a wee little one. It probably made parenting easy....or hard, one or the other. Either way, you're welcome Mom and Dad.
One memory that I had was one where I would play the game, 'Let's dig to China.' And how you played the game was, Erica digs in the back yard until she reaches China. Knowing very little about geography (nothing much has changed since then), I figured China was straight down. Straight down, hang a left, pay a guy ten bucks for a road map and then BAM, here's China!
So as a kid, I sat in my backyard for hours digging and digging and digging. With a spoon. That poor spoon. We (and when I say we, I mean our digging team: me and the doggy who wasn't much help) had like two indestructible spoons for digging and I am sure one is still in some mound of dirt in our old backyard. As a city person, (aka, I lived in the suburbs of St. Louis), I sure was handy and knowledgeable when it came to holes, especially outdoorsy holes; the best kind.
But, here's the thing: 1. I never got anywhere. 2. The hole never made it to deeper than a foot. 3. I gave up on some holes and started new ones, thus never making it anywhere. 4. Most of the holes made looked more like craters than holes.
My mom never checked on me either. She never asked what I was doing, she never came into my office (the outdoors) to ask me what the holes were all about.
And from that, I always thought it was my own secret. I always thought maybe she was a laissez-faire, hands-off mother who didn't know that I dug holes, even though she gave me supplies to do the job (the Indestructible Spoons and Cherry Kool-Aid).
It took me a while to realize that she probably was either sleeping off the exaustion I'd caused her from the day, she might have rejoiced that I was out of her hair, or she probably got the washer and dryer warmed up for when I came back into the house still in my dirty clothes. My mom coulda went to Mommy-paloza while I was digging, or she was probably taking snapshots of me and my weird habits. I'd like to hope that she didn't call all of my relatives to tell them about Hole 101, instructor: Erica Wiley, age 6.
I think I do have a photograph of a little me wading in a pool of muddy rainwater with my infantchildsister (yes, one word) staring at me while I'm exploring the path to China.
My mom still brings it up my old pastimes to this day. Thanks Mom.
Let it be known, I was probably the funniest, most precocious child ever. I was very independent too, and bossy as a wee little one. It probably made parenting easy....or hard, one or the other. Either way, you're welcome Mom and Dad.
One memory that I had was one where I would play the game, 'Let's dig to China.' And how you played the game was, Erica digs in the back yard until she reaches China. Knowing very little about geography (nothing much has changed since then), I figured China was straight down. Straight down, hang a left, pay a guy ten bucks for a road map and then BAM, here's China!
So as a kid, I sat in my backyard for hours digging and digging and digging. With a spoon. That poor spoon. We (and when I say we, I mean our digging team: me and the doggy who wasn't much help) had like two indestructible spoons for digging and I am sure one is still in some mound of dirt in our old backyard. As a city person, (aka, I lived in the suburbs of St. Louis), I sure was handy and knowledgeable when it came to holes, especially outdoorsy holes; the best kind.
But, here's the thing: 1. I never got anywhere. 2. The hole never made it to deeper than a foot. 3. I gave up on some holes and started new ones, thus never making it anywhere. 4. Most of the holes made looked more like craters than holes.
My mom never checked on me either. She never asked what I was doing, she never came into my office (the outdoors) to ask me what the holes were all about.
And from that, I always thought it was my own secret. I always thought maybe she was a laissez-faire, hands-off mother who didn't know that I dug holes, even though she gave me supplies to do the job (the Indestructible Spoons and Cherry Kool-Aid).
It took me a while to realize that she probably was either sleeping off the exaustion I'd caused her from the day, she might have rejoiced that I was out of her hair, or she probably got the washer and dryer warmed up for when I came back into the house still in my dirty clothes. My mom coulda went to Mommy-paloza while I was digging, or she was probably taking snapshots of me and my weird habits. I'd like to hope that she didn't call all of my relatives to tell them about Hole 101, instructor: Erica Wiley, age 6.
I think I do have a photograph of a little me wading in a pool of muddy rainwater with my infantchildsister (yes, one word) staring at me while I'm exploring the path to China.
My mom still brings it up my old pastimes to this day. Thanks Mom.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Schmanksgiving
Right now, I wanna bitch about Thanksgiving. I know it's a bit early, but I can't not give my two cents. I'll probably write more about this awful holiday, just you wait.
Every single day, I hear people jib jabbing about Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving, Schmanksgiving. Really? reallllllllllyyyyyyy. I don't need a whole week off of school just to overeat. I can do that on a Friday night, in my pajamas without having to leave my apartment or see the extended family. I'm not even a holiday person, but I make no complaints about the other holidays. I support the Judeo-Christian holidays. Especially the ones with presents.
Lemme just say, I think I would rather be Jewish. Hanukkah: 8 days of presents, no gaudy Christmas tree, a cool dreidel with a dreidel song and you get to light candles (but they don't go overboard, which is nice). For the last four Thanksgivings, my family hasn't made turkey. THAT'S THE WHOLE REASON I GO----for the turkey sandwiches and the pumpkin pie. Seriously, two years ago, my extended family made.......ham. Yes, ham. You heard right. Ham. Let me refresh your memory of the first Pilgrim/Indian feast. Some European colonists (aka Pilgrims) sat down with various Native American groups (who were here in North America first) and ate corn, vegetables, pies/puddings and.........poultry! Poultry! Not swine. POULTRY. TURKEY. Feathers, not curly tails. And then the "two" groups lived peacefully together ever since........
Like I said earlier....I make no complaints about the other holidays. Of course, I have qualms, but for now, it's just the one absurd holiday that needs criticism.
Thanksgiving---the poor man's Christmas. I just don't understand what use it is to me/everyone in the world who breathes. I get a whole week off (including two sets of weekends). We don't even do anything until the day of. Thursday morning, I get up early, travel an hour to the scary part of my Midwestern city, to my grandma's house where I greet an embarrassing assortment of extended family members whom I haven't seen since last Christmas and then we all eat. And then after I eat....I eat some more. Then, I talk to these family members (you know the ones....the ones whose names you cannot recall)....and tell them the same story:
1. No, I'm not pregnant. This is turkey weight. I'm just pudgy....get off my back.
2. Yes, I'm still in college.
3. Studying history.
4. Hell if I know about the only Russian history fact you seem to recall. I study American history. Leave me alone or at least stop embarrassing me with your random Jeopardy-esque trivia about Eastern Europe.
5. Yes, I do have a boyfriend.
6. (After #5) Please don't give me any "knowing looks."
7. No, I don't want any more food. This is my third plate of turkey sandwich with a side of pumpkin pie.
8. Get your own Bud Light. And, ask someone else, in the kitchen, if they recall who Frederick the Great is.
9. I can't say that I'm in the market to buy your 2006 Mercedes Benz off of you.
10. Your sexual innuendo is refreshing....but say one more tidbit and you're going to get this lightly sauced turkey sandwich in your boozing face, sucka.
_______
And, what can you ask them? It gets pretty dull receiving the third degree from your dad's great uncle, once removed, etc. Conversation starters are tricky with a middle aged man.
It's hard to come up with questions for someone whose name has escaped you.
How's work, sir?
What is it that you do, my good man?
How do you even spell that job, senor? (add a squiggle to the 'n' in senor)
Is that an actual job? Are you really unemployed? Are you actually that sad character on Office Space (the one who loves his red Swingline stapler)?
What is it that you do, in your job?
And they pay you for that?
Is this your twentieth beer, because you've been rambling about the accounting department for 15 minutes.
Plus, except for last year, all I did on T-giving is eat, talk to the family and watch the Dog Show. yes, the Dog Competition on Animal Planet.
Why? I dunno. It just feels right. I sit on my couch, some people play poker for nickels (.05 cents) while me and the other kids (those not married....and my grandpa and maybe one real uncle) watch the Dog Competition. We always shout out which dog we like, which is the cutest, funnest, while we watch.
It's the best part about Thanksgiving: hearing my grandpa yell from the other room, "Erica, Large Breed Dogs are up next...."
Every single day, I hear people jib jabbing about Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving, Schmanksgiving. Really? reallllllllllyyyyyyy. I don't need a whole week off of school just to overeat. I can do that on a Friday night, in my pajamas without having to leave my apartment or see the extended family. I'm not even a holiday person, but I make no complaints about the other holidays. I support the Judeo-Christian holidays. Especially the ones with presents.
Lemme just say, I think I would rather be Jewish. Hanukkah: 8 days of presents, no gaudy Christmas tree, a cool dreidel with a dreidel song and you get to light candles (but they don't go overboard, which is nice). For the last four Thanksgivings, my family hasn't made turkey. THAT'S THE WHOLE REASON I GO----for the turkey sandwiches and the pumpkin pie. Seriously, two years ago, my extended family made.......ham. Yes, ham. You heard right. Ham. Let me refresh your memory of the first Pilgrim/Indian feast. Some European colonists (aka Pilgrims) sat down with various Native American groups (who were here in North America first) and ate corn, vegetables, pies/puddings and.........poultry! Poultry! Not swine. POULTRY. TURKEY. Feathers, not curly tails. And then the "two" groups lived peacefully together ever since........
Like I said earlier....I make no complaints about the other holidays. Of course, I have qualms, but for now, it's just the one absurd holiday that needs criticism.
Thanksgiving---the poor man's Christmas. I just don't understand what use it is to me/everyone in the world who breathes. I get a whole week off (including two sets of weekends). We don't even do anything until the day of. Thursday morning, I get up early, travel an hour to the scary part of my Midwestern city, to my grandma's house where I greet an embarrassing assortment of extended family members whom I haven't seen since last Christmas and then we all eat. And then after I eat....I eat some more. Then, I talk to these family members (you know the ones....the ones whose names you cannot recall)....and tell them the same story:
1. No, I'm not pregnant. This is turkey weight. I'm just pudgy....get off my back.
2. Yes, I'm still in college.
3. Studying history.
4. Hell if I know about the only Russian history fact you seem to recall. I study American history. Leave me alone or at least stop embarrassing me with your random Jeopardy-esque trivia about Eastern Europe.
5. Yes, I do have a boyfriend.
6. (After #5) Please don't give me any "knowing looks."
7. No, I don't want any more food. This is my third plate of turkey sandwich with a side of pumpkin pie.
8. Get your own Bud Light. And, ask someone else, in the kitchen, if they recall who Frederick the Great is.
9. I can't say that I'm in the market to buy your 2006 Mercedes Benz off of you.
10. Your sexual innuendo is refreshing....but say one more tidbit and you're going to get this lightly sauced turkey sandwich in your boozing face, sucka.
_______
And, what can you ask them? It gets pretty dull receiving the third degree from your dad's great uncle, once removed, etc. Conversation starters are tricky with a middle aged man.
It's hard to come up with questions for someone whose name has escaped you.
How's work, sir?
What is it that you do, my good man?
How do you even spell that job, senor? (add a squiggle to the 'n' in senor)
Is that an actual job? Are you really unemployed? Are you actually that sad character on Office Space (the one who loves his red Swingline stapler)?
What is it that you do, in your job?
And they pay you for that?
Is this your twentieth beer, because you've been rambling about the accounting department for 15 minutes.
Plus, except for last year, all I did on T-giving is eat, talk to the family and watch the Dog Show. yes, the Dog Competition on Animal Planet.
Why? I dunno. It just feels right. I sit on my couch, some people play poker for nickels (.05 cents) while me and the other kids (those not married....and my grandpa and maybe one real uncle) watch the Dog Competition. We always shout out which dog we like, which is the cutest, funnest, while we watch.
It's the best part about Thanksgiving: hearing my grandpa yell from the other room, "Erica, Large Breed Dogs are up next...."
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