Some psychotic woman escaped from a mental hospital this morning, busted open my office door, and said to me, while pointing her finger, “You’re unfriendly, and cold. I know this because I’m a friendly and open person.”
I said back, “I’m the friendliest effing person you’ve ever met.”
JAY KAY! She wasn’t just “some psychotic woman.” She’s one of the professors I work for.
JK #2: Being the unfriendly and cold person that I am, what I actually said, was, “Would you like to schedule a time to discuss this?”
This post is about Tactless Bitch, also
known as Queen Bee.
Also known as Tactless Bitch.
She waltzes into my office suite to talk to one of my office neighbors, "Today's Election Day." Because, evidently, he must be the only person in America who doesn't know. She continues, "Mitt Romney and Scott Brown are like monsters to me. I mean, even if we were just in a room together and I met them, I wouldn't like them."
I should have interjected, "Hey, Bitch. Keep your fucking politics to yourself. Have some class and save that shit for a more appropriate place." (Like a critically-acclaimed blog such as mine.)
“Yeah, you don’t have to worry about that. If they were ever in the same room as you, they’d get the fuck out of there. So you wouldn’t even have any time to meet them.”
“Hey, Bitch. I voted for Mitt and Scott. I’M A MOTHAFUCKING MONSTAAAHHHH!!!!!” (Since we’re in Boston, I would drop the R.)
I look good with my sticker.
Real good. Here's another one.
And in B&W.
This is not a humor blog.
This is my journal on the enemies
I make in this miracle called life.
A girl from my hometown and I occasionally ride the train together to work. Only by chance though - definitely not on purpose. What ends up happening is, she tells me about her problems. In particular, about the guy she currently has on-and-off-again relations with. And I do my part - I listen attentively and try to provide words of support. Even though I can tell the guy’s a doosh and a loser. Mostly a loser.
They’re back in their off state and have been for a couple weeks now.
A couple weeks ago, this girl invited me to go with her to an NBA game because she could no longer go with her on-and-off-again guy. And like a dumbass, I accepted. Because I felt bad that she was suddenly without a date. Even though watching basketball bores me and this girl is obviously going to be a bummer the whole time, moping over her at-present-off-guy.
My plan was to be optimistic and, as a back-up, drink a lot of beer at the game to get through it.
This girl and I were on the same train again today. She asked me, other than the couple of friends she’s heard me talk about hanging out with, what else I do on the weekends. I told her what you already know, that I mostly spend my time with old people and children
, or I spend my free time by myself.
She went berserk. Her eyes got all wide. “That’s NOT good. You should be spending your time with other people.”
Instantly, I was washed over with regret.
I simply answered, “BUT -- I like spending time with myself [unlike you].”
Her: Oh, r-right-right. Hey, you know, if that’s what works for you. So you mentioned you have a blog a while back?
Suddenly, I’m an acceptable person again.
You already know how this goes: I still have to go to the game with this girl.
Please. Beer me now so I can get a head start.
Lately, I’ve been holding doors for Queen Bee
whenever we encounter each other in the hallways. She’s getting bigger as she’s nearing her due date. I even explain to her, “I apologize if you feel like I’m unnecessarily treating you like an elderly person; I can’t help but open doors for you when the opportunity presents itself.” She kind of smiles and kind of says ‘thank you.’ I think that means she likes me now.
Yay! QB and I are no longer enemies. Which means there’s room in my life for a new one.
There’s a new one. It’s one of the silly students. Her name is Glasses.
They’re a cute pair, right? They do NOT work for her though – her face does not flatter those glasses. Poor glasses.
Moving on – Last week, Glasses showed up at my office to drop off her very late paper. I asked her a question of clarification; she responded with great rudeness. ‘Don’t forget what the subway conductor announced on the intercom this morning,’ I thought to myself. “Doors will open on both sides. Have a 5 star day. Don’t let nobody get you down.” So, with Mariah’s “Shake It Off” stuck in my head, I shook off the Glasses situation, to find somebody who appreciates all the love I give.
Then she sent me a rude email. There was a mix-up with a form I had to turn in for her. Most likely, the office I submitted the paperwork to hasn’t updated their record yet and sent her an automated email asking for paperwork that has in fact already been submitted.
I responded: I will get this taken care of. And I do not appreciate your rudeness – I’m referring to both in-person when you turned in your paper and in your email.
Her response: I’m sorry, since you deal with so many students, I didn’t want to fall through the cracks. I will try to be more conscious of how I communicate with others.
Hmm… so she said sorry. Does this mean we’ve skipped over the middle part of our enemy-ship and are now friends like me and QB?
I hope so. I kind of want to steal her glasses. And the only way to do it without being accused of the crime is if we’re friends. She won’t even think of me as a suspect. But I better not jump the gun. Unless otherwise noted, I should continue to consider her my enemy and behave accordingly. (I am merely being proactive and responsible, like an adult would.)
Welcomed Guest: Knock, knock!
Me: Come in! I apologize for the food and hairspray smells [as I finished lunch mere moments ago and then sprayed hairspray onto my hair].
Unwelcomed Guest (formerly known as Welcomed Guest): Why were you using hairspray?
Unwelcomed-Guest-formerly-known-as-Welcomed-Guest asked me that question with a dramatically sour face.
And the only thing I can take away from that is, mere moments prior to knock-knocking on my door, she must have had a ludicrously sour piece of candy that makes her face scrunch up to form a thousand wrinkles for me to see, so that I can shrivel up my face to form one or two wrinkles (I am young in age; she is not – at all) as a return gesture of my respect for the elderly and wrinkly.
But with me being young and immature, instead, I ignored her token of a thousand wrinkles and inquired as to how I could be of assistance to her – showing her no sign of wrinkle respect whatsoever.
She shared gossip with me. Then left. Then I sprayed more hairspray onto my hair because I live in a free country. Then she walked in on me hairspraying.
Unwelcomed-Guest-formerly-known-as-Welcomed-Guest: What are you doing now?
(said with more of this face)
At that point, I did the only thing that there was left to do in a situation like that – I lied.
Me: I’m air juggling.
Ha! Oh, I wish I said that. I don't actually have any balls
. I just told her I was putting the hairspray away.
is picking on me. :(
But she's doing it in a way that's perfectly subtle and calculated so that she ends up coming off as innocent and welcoming
Which is why I've looked into how to prevent myself from getting stung. She's been lurking and buzzing around; me getting stung is bound to happen.
According to the above how-to video, I will need:
- a beekeeper or pest control expert
- 2 liter bottle
- heavy-duty scissors
- bee traps
- moth balls
- and pantyhose.
I consider you, people of the internet, my pest control experts. Please feel free to share your expertise with me, as I will begin my bee containment tomorrow. And I am all set with the required items, which I will take pictures of for you so you can monitor my progress.
Before I report on my mission tomorrow, here's a snippet of her wickedness disguised as benevolence:
One of the professors I work for asks Queen Bee to email me a specific list of students. Queen Bee emails the list to the professor instead. Then, being the splendid worker that she is, QB walks past me over to the professor, who is standing 4 feet away from where I am, to tell her she sent the email. The professor, who is completely and utterly oblivious to QB's conniving ways, comes over to me to tell me, "Great, QB found the list and sent it to us! I'll email it to you so you can add to it the list you're working on." In return, I give her a smile so big you can't even see my eyes. As I am slamming my index finger on the computer mouse to open my email, I hear QB say to the professor, "I sent it to you because I couldn't find Whitney's email in our program catalog."
You and I both know that that was a
load of crap.
Somehow, QB managed to find my email when she wanted to make this happen:
But she couldn't find my email when I needed it in order to complete a task for one of my professors. Even though all of our emails are the same: email@example.com.
The first time I was stung by a bee was during recess in third grade. And I was stung on my middle finger. Which I held up for my teacher to see, while crying. Hence the plan of defense. Because if I get stung again, I think I might just end up pathetically giving QB the middle finger, crying at the same time.
Do more than wish me luck.
As straight women, we seriously have the shit end of the stick. We were born to love sleeping with straight men and there’s nothing we can to do fix that. Think about them. Straight men... Douchebags. Creeps. IDIOTS.
Assholes are the ones I can deal with - it's the confused ones that I absolutely can't. So allow me be of service to you stupids.
Now that I work for a higher education institution, I shall adopt its mission and goal of advancing and spreading knowledge.
(My mind sometimes works in office mode even when I'm not at work.)
There. I'm doing my part in bettering society by educating an underdeveloped population. You are all very welcome!
I promise I'm not trying to find things to embitter me.
Look! I found positives to Boston.
(all made in Boston)
See? I have no qualms about men or Boston. I try to find the silver lining in hopeless situations.