by tess
Two words: American Idol. I don’t watch it and I’m sick to death of hearing about it. Each and every morning is filled with The Blathering Boneheads in my office going on and on and on and on and on about this freakin’ show. I know I’m in the minority here, but thank the Singing Angels in Heaven that it’s over for a while. Nattering Nitwit #1 pointedly refuses to believe that I’ve never seen it. It is possible to live a full life without having watched the thousands of hours of American Idol that Fox broadcasts each season. Honest. I’ve never seen Titanic or Forrest Gump either but the Earth hasn’t stopped revolving around the sun. Admittedly I’ve never given AI (or Titanic or Forrest Gump, for that matter) the opportunity to be adored. But as they say, I Get To Pick. And I elect to live my life free of the Idolatry that has consumed my office and so many others.
Because I sit at the front desk, it is APPARENTLY my job to deal with breakfast deliveries. You know, the same deliveries that interrupt the 8:30 AM -- make that 8:45 -- meeting Every Single Morning. The same meetingus interruptus deliveries that the CEO has repeatedly banned. And wouldn’t you just know that the three people who order are the same three people who cry each and every day about being so broke that they can’t afford food. Ummm, really? Because I’m guessing that you could probably eat toast and cereal for under six bucks a day. Optimally you would be capable of breaking your fast within the confines of your own home like a Normal Person. If, for some reason, that’s impossible, you could potentially feed yourself that same breakfast at the office rather than ordering in. But even if all that’s impossible (and obviously it is!), then could you please, please leave a check or the exact change instead of telling me to “just figure out the tip, but don’t leave too much.” Do not make me responsible for your greasy, overpriced kibble or your cheap, under-tipping nature. It’s embarrassing to all of us. You’re the only one who doesn’t know it.
Shouting into cell phones. I don’t know why people feel compelled to shout into cell phones. In fact, I’m not sure why most people need to have their cell phones surgically implanted into their ears at all. Are there important moments – both business and personal -- when a cell phone is useful? Yes. There are also hundreds of thousands of hours worth of cell phone conversations that are completely useless. Like millions of others, I detest being privy to the personal conversations of those around me. When I’m standing in line behind you at Wal-Mart, I don’t want to know that your car insurance was cancelled because you thought your bitch ex-wife was paying the bills. I don’t want to discover while I’m waiting for my slice of pizza that your bumps turned out to be genital warts rather than herpes. I had not planned as part of my flight to Atlanta to hear you instruct your husband how large to dig the hole in the back yard for the recently deceased (and apparently quite large) family dog. And I sure as hell don’t want to sit next to you at TGIFriday’s while you lie to your wife that you’re still at work. For the love of God in Heaven, think about what the people around you are forced to hear when exposed to your personal crap!
In my office every season is hayfever season. Sadly, several of my co-workers are allergic to tissue. Therefore, my office is a veritable symphony of sniffles, a disgusting habit of those people who were clearly raised by decongestant-deprived wolves. Colleagues have even been known to respond to the hours and hours of sniffling, “May I offer you a Kleenex?” Naturally, the answer is always NO followed by yet another round of sniffles. Fortunately, the incessant timpani of sniffling is punctuated by the thunderous percussion of sneezes so deafening that ceiling tiles have been known to fall crashing to the floor. The Earth-shatteringly-loud sneezing has evolved into a competition to see who can be the loudest and most annoying, thereby garnering the most attention via the ceaseless progression of post-sneeze conversation: the blessing followed by the thanking resulting in the welcoming. And so the cycle begins anew. Sniffle. Sniffle. Sniffle.
Like 6.8 million other American adults, I resent my diagnosis of GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder). It’s not the stigma of imperfect mental health that has provoked my resentment. Nor is it the cognitive behavioral therapy and accompanying pharmaceuticals. No, it’s the name: Generalized Anxiety Disorder. It’s such a non-specific name! You might as well just call it Something-a-Little-Screwy-itus! Okay, maybe not that. In lieu of GAD, how about Apprehensivia Syndrome or Catastrophis-obia? Even Definitive Distress Disease is at least specific! Just ask the people who suffer from Legionnaire’s Disease -- it’s not fair to have a crappy-sounding condition. Although I guess it is better than Mad Cow Disease, Flesh Eating Bacteria, Swine Flu, or the Black Death. Okay, I guess GAD isn’t really so bad when you think about it … although I still refer to it socially as (VUF) Vaguely Unhinged Fretfulness.
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