How I Love My Job, part 32,500

It's been ten years since the E.P.A. (Environmental Protection Agency) visited my military base, so they've descended en masse for the week, unannounced, to make our lives hell. It's a multimedia event, which means they're looking at every aspect of our environmental program.

I normally work 10-12 hour days, but this week I'm having to neglect my work load so I can traipse around in heels, answering questions and hoping they don't find any violations worthy of a $32,500 fine per day.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; and the ability to bowl inspectors over with bullshit...


Call It.

I've been playing a game with my dentist for over ten years. He prescribes antibiotics, which I'm supposed to take before cleanings twice a year because of my heart, but don't, of course (turns out I prefer to stockpile pills to wash down all at one time with beer. Not funny, I know), but lie when he asks and request another script as a cover. Oh, the little rebellious things I do to amuse myself.

Now, however, the party's over: the dental powers that be have decided antibiotics are no longer required for people like me. To top it all off, a lifetime of nachos and popcorn has cracked another tooth, requiring crown #2.

Pass the applesauce and geritol.


Insult + Injury

It's not enough that I fed my grubby little face continuously for five days out of town and my pants are a little snug? Do I really need Delta calling me out?


St. Francis in Tucson

After my week-long social frenzy in Tucson, otherwise known as a work conference, I've come to the conclusion that people in my field must all be crazy, gambling alcoholics...or we naturally gravitate towards one other like beer-seeking missiles. No matter.

I told Patrick before I left that if he fed the cats (as opposed to locking them outside the entire week I'm gone, as he's prone to do), took care of the mail and other minor cleaning chores, AND I won at the casino, I'd give him $50. If, on the other hand, I lost? He'd get nothing. I have a good feeling about this year's Mother of the Year committee visit.

As I was standing in line at the hotel registration to get directions to the casino, four other conference attendees told me to come along with them - they had a designated driver! We must've talked about work a little bit - I have scribbles on bar napkins to prove it - then drank and threw down $100 bets with reckless abandon.

Once home, I gave Patrick some money so he could join his buddies at the beach for this final weekend of Spring Break, then found a styrofoam bucket full of fish in the office (?). I bought a glass aquarium, some plastic landscaping and fish food, only to find out they're bait for Patrick's new fishing hobby.

I also found out from Tiffany that my new pseudo-fiancé was out with another woman Friday night - thank goodness my impulsive self didn't jump on that wagon!


Poor Little White Boy

Apparently, Audi's* have an automatic-lock safety feature, so if you're at the gas station early in the morning, you have to call your cranky teenager at home on Spring Break seventeen times so he can bring your extra set of car keys. I knew I should have paid more attention in German class so I could understand the manual.

*YES! I have a new car! My personal auto sales manager, Mitch, called me up last week when a woman traded in her 2006 Audi A4 (turbo!). I wasn't interested, until I broke the console in my old car and the door leaked (again!), so he gave me a deal I couldn't pass up. Payments are $2 less/month, and all I have to do is have a beer with him. I'm hoping he'll agree to pay my next speeding ticket, but we're still negotiating.

I was planning on spending the morning doing taxes and packing for my trip to Tucson, but I had to go into work first because the shady, misogynistic, money-grubbing 32 year old white male supervisor I demoted last week has filed an EO complaint behind my back. Really? Is that the best you've got?


Get back!

I had to demote one of my supervisors for consistently being the world's biggest greedy-ass hippie, who completely bypasses me in all things important. He covers his mistakes with miles of saccharin-coated bullshit, but fortunately my managers told me to correct the situation as I see fit. Bonus points for arbitrary rules. Monthly reports must now be submitted in Times New Roman, 10 pt. font, single-spaced and bulletted and brown shoes must only be worn on Tuesdays. Get back, Loretta.


Tying the NOT!

I met Steve when my sister Tiffany invited me up to a redneck bar in Troy, where she lives, for St. Patrick's green beer. He's a youngish fifty year old, who danced and bought plenty of rounds of green pucker and melon shots (how did we imagine these were tasty?) for us. Needless to say, he ended up with my phone number. I should probably just start handing out business cards to strange men.

When we went out again this past weekend, I was telling him about Tiffany's new job as a bartender at the country club, so he suggested we go there for dinner. He's a member, so we sat with the mayor, while Tiffany waited on us. Unfortunately, Steve's a Miller beer distributor, and I can't help but think I'm drinking swamp water off a sweaty teenager* when I drink Miller products.

*When I was sixteen, my friends drilled a hole in the bottom of a can of Miller Lite, drained it, then replaced the beer with water from the river. They sealed the hole with a bead of adhesive, so that the container still went "pffft" when I pulled the top, then took a giant swig. This was obviously traumatic.

On Saturday, Steve proposed to me, but I had to decline the offer since I had nothing to wear. I've come to the conclusion that older men must be desperate - afraid of dying alone with no one to take off their boots.