Solutionizationing...

Hello my lovelies,

Happy 2018!  It's been a really long time since I sat down to do this.  You were probably enjoying the break, but break time is over, the bitch it back.  I assume you all think that the title of this post is a completely nonsensical, made-up, word.  Well, that may be true now, but I'm going to work on making solutionizationing and Rondariffc mainstream.  Seriously, who doesn't think that Rondariffic needs to be a legit word.   In case you've somehow forgotten, Rondariffic is anything that is so unbelievably fabulous that is can only be attributed to Ronda.  I realize that sounds pretty grandiose, but then again, grandiose is a thing I do!  

OK, let's get off Ronda's ego trip and on the the subject, what the hell ever that ridiculous word means, shall we.

You all know how much I enjoy problem solving (Sidebar:  there may be a few of you in this group that think I also enjoy problem creating.  I cannot confirm nor deny, but that's an entirely different cuppa crazy that ain't none of us trained to understand or fix, so why don't we just let that ugly, sleeping dog lie. Shall we!)  Anyway, back to solutionizationing.  Since I have such a talent for pointing out other people's flaws, I thought I should dedicate a post to not only pointing them out, but providing Rondariffic solutions to said problems.  

Problem #1 - if the shoe (or the sports bra) don't fit, stop wearing it!

In late November (just proving that this isn't just a January fad) I began dragging my jiggly butt back to the gym to try to move my sagging caboose back north.  Please understand that I am not faulting anyone, at any fitness level, for going to the gym.  Nope - I really am in camp "You go girl!" regarding any size, shape or ability at the gym.  That said, you all know how fussy I am about gym fashion, because it's the f*ing gym.  I will never understand or condone the need to get out of bed and put on makeup just to go sweat it off.  Especially when the workout is at 7AM.  A few weeks ago I encountered a rotund, perfectly coiffed beauty on the elliptical.  This poor woman was trying to give it a go, but the cute new (one size definitely does NOT fit all) workout apparel wasn't cooperating.  The pants were too tight and that elliptical driven wedgy was clearly becoming very uncomfortable.  (You should all be proud to know that I exercised exceptional self-restraint by not walking over to tell her that wiggling on the elliptical was likely going to result in a head injury or a herniated disc, but it was not gonna fix the problem that needed fixing all up in there.) On top, literally, of the ill-fitted bottoms decision was an even worse fitting sports bra.  I realize that many of you cannot relate to the importance of a well-fitting and supportive sports bra, but those of you who can, KNOW what I'm saying.  I'm not going to go into extensive detail, but rest assured, there was a lot of tugging and shrugging and kvetching to try to attempt to control that "situation" all to no avail.   

Observing this was somewhat comical, because, well I've been there.  Frankly, I think we've all experienced one of those "I can totally pull this look off" moments, only to get wherever we needed to go and realize that, yeah, maybe I can't actually pull this look off.  The difference is, this realization is where the intellectually superior among us decide to not attempt that look (and definitely not that sports bra) again.  Let's just say that the best and the brightest are not working-out at my gym because I saw the same woman with the same situation in three different colors.  Ironically, I haven't seen her since.  I can only assume that my herniated disc prophecy was realized.

Problem #2 - oh belt, what do you do?

Another fashion (UGH) thing that I cannot and will not understand is the saggy pants thing.  Earlier this week I encountered a young man with red Beats headphones, a black shirt, orange pants barely covering his butt and a green belt walking toward me.  This mental giant was quite literally holding his pants up with both hands.  Uhhhhmmmm, yeah, so you have a belt and you still need BOTH hands to hold your pants up.  For crying out loud, a belt is not a hard concept.  THIS is a solvable problem!    

Problem #3 - belt envy

A few blocks later I encounter another genius, this one sans belt and not one, but two giant Big Gulps.  For this young, urban fashion maestro having only two hands creates quite a conundrum.  I thought about referring him to my chiropractor because walking with one's knees three feet apart in an attempt to keep your pants near the vicinity of your ass, inevitably affects the alignment of your lower back.  I'm not a doctor, but I'm pretty sure that's true(ish).  Yay Science!

In my mind there are two very excellent solution options for this problem.  Option #1 - I could hold his giant sodas while he runs down the street and mugs the dude that can't figure out how to use the green belt.  Option #2 - the guy could procure one of those hard hats that holds beer cans.  In case you can't quite picture what that is, don't worry, just know the hat usually has a Green Bay Packers logo and is inevitably worn by a hairy man with a very large, protruding belly and a giant eagle pendant or tattoo.  Mmmmm Sexy!

Problem #4 - stilettos and sidewalk pavers, a match made in heaven...

Since I am now the urban commute that eschews driving I have a fabulous selection of cute, but comfortable footwear.  I can't help but chuckle when I see the super-cute, little 20-somethings, teetering along 16th Street in ridiculously high-heeled boots that repeatedly get stuck in the cracks between the sidewalk pavers.  I'm a complete jerk, but I've laughed out loud a few times watching these little girls, talking on their cellphones, while staggering along with Bambi-like steps because they can't walk in these impossibly high heels only to stumble when said heel gets buried in the sidewalk.  My solution to this problem - Nikes!  Does any man really think it's appealing to see a woman unable to walk properly just so she can look sexy?  Wait!  Don't answer that.  I realize that have never been, nor will I ever be little or super-cute or sexy, but I will have fun, sassy, comfortable footwear, oh and a whole lot of attitude.  

As you can all see, I really do have some mad problem solving skills, so please do not hesitate to reach out if you have a problem you need me to help solve.  The advice I provide probably won't be good, it certainly won't be cheap and I can pretty much guarantee that it won't be even remotely helpful, but there's a very high probability that you will learn a few new words, most of which cannot and should not ever be repeated in anything that remotely resembles polite company.  

I hope you are all having a fabulous start to 2018.  Until next time...

XOXO

In case of emergency...

Hello my darlings,

My brain is broken and this is a lot cheaper than therapy, so once again you get a dose-O-Ronda.   

Since I once again have health insurance I have started a quest to find new medical providers and schedule appointments, or at least I'm attempting to do so.  Based on some occasional tooth pain finding a dentist seemed like the logical first start.  I trust you all remember the extensive research performed in identifying the appropriate tires to purchase.  Well, based on that history, it's probably not surprising I did about as much research in finding a dentist.  Recently, I was walking home from work, earlier than normal, thinking that I should vary my route slightly, so I could stop in to schedule a massage.  Full disclosure I was ready to get naked in the lobby if they would have told me that a massage therapist was available - lucky for everyone that didn't happen!  As I was approaching Massage Envy, I realized that there is a dentist right next door.  Since I am trying to function as a grown-up, at least part of the time, I decided I should prioritize my dental health over a good rubdown, though the massage was way more appealing.  Once again, demonstrating my exceptional research abilities as it relates to all matters of life-based decisions, I walked in and asked if they accept my insurance.  They do, so I now have a dentist.  Though after visiting this dentist this week I am not sure this was the best decision.  There currently are no issues with my teeth, but somehow the "plan" he is putting together is going to involve several thousand dollars worth of dental care and a mouth guard since apparently I grind my teeth.    

The funny thing about my inability to research things is that I am actually very analytical at work.  I am quite adept at looking at the short-term request and analyzing, or at least proselytizing, the long-term potential impacts.  I'm not sure how or why I am unable to employ these well-honed skills about anything life-impacting.  I'm sure I can blame this on some deep-seated emotional trauma from my childhood (now that you've read about my family, could you blame me if I did #thatshitsdysfucntional) or attribute it to the turmoil of my life in the past 12-months, but the reality is that I've pretty much always sucked at this.  I'm much more comfortable dealing with, arguing about and solving business problems, than I am researching, assessing and deciding on matters of health, finances or state of mind.  For the past 18-years, if there was research about any sort of domestic matter, Mr. Research did that for me.  In the 25-years prior to that, OK, well, my parents (my mom, it was definitely my mom doing all of that stuff) did it for me for 16-18 years, so really it was only from about 18-25-years old that I even had to consider making any sort of "life" decisions and, as is the case with a lot, perhaps most, kids that age many of those decisions were pretty questionable. 

Now, however, as I round the corner on 45, it seems like I should be more capable of employing some semblance of critical-thinking skill to the decisions that actually impact my life, rather than only using those skills regarding matters of co-workers and/or paychecks.  I should!  I really, really should....  I just have no idea how. 

Please don't interpret this to mean I am a deadbeat, I'm definitely not a deadbeat.  I have excellent credit, I always pay my bills on time, I am clean and well-kempt, my apartment is not spotless, but it could be much worse.  I manage my day to day adult responsibilities pretty well, I just suck at evaluating, researching or analysing decisions.  I prefer to just do something impulsive, then spend weeks/months/years beating myself up about how I probably could have made a better decision had I not just reacted impulsively.  OR I procrastinate! 

Case in point, the reason I didn't have health insurance most of this year, is because I just didn't get it done.  I was busy and emotionally overwhelmed during the first 60-days of 2017, the period in which I was eligible for Obamacare.  Then in June when I was doing the consulting gig, I was eligible for benefits through the placement firm, but at that point, I hated my job and I didn't want to be there, so rather than just clicking the few checkboxes in the same system I logged into every week to log my hours, thereby ensuring I got paychecks, and I ALWAYS made sure I got paychecks, I didn't manage to get that done.  When I finally tried, it was beyond the first 30-days of my employment and I was no longer eligible.  #DUMBASS!

My current source of eternal procrastination currently is this stupid PMP Exam.  I need to get it done by the end of the year, but I don't want to do it.  Every fiber of being is repulsed by the whole idea of this stupid certification, therefore every time I attempt to study, the alarm bells in my head sound-off and I end up in a self-pity spiral.  On top of that when I tried to register for the exam I couldn't do it, because I need to have a "Sponsor ID" or pay $405 to take the damn test.  I don't want to take the test, so I am NOT spending $405, but the ding-dong at the training center where I took the class can't seem to figure out how to help me, partly because I was supposed to have done this within 90-days of completing the course.  FMLIFE!

Clearly, there is a pattern here and obviously I am the cause of my own chaos, but I can't figure out how to get out of my own damn way.  In an attempt to change this behavior, I decided this morning, when I was wide-awake at 4AM, that I should break this pattern and do some research to find a doctor.  There is nothing specific I need to address, but I haven't had a physical in more than two-years, so I figure I should get that done.  I big-girled-up, I logged on and the website directed me to a questionnaire.  So far so good, general health questions, where I live, yada yada yada, all is well, then I get to the "Emergency Contact" section.  At that point I closed the browser, got back into my bed and sobbed. 

Now, I am out of my bed, though that may be temporary, whining to all of you in the hope that one of my female peeps in the Denver metro area will take pity on me and recommend a doctor that isn't a sadist somewhere nearby.  Maybe I can even convince that friend to go with me to the doctor to hold my hand and/or fill out the damn paperwork.  Furthermore, I think I will just enter Frank Azar as my emergency contact.  I mean really, isn't an ambulance chasing lawyer that advertises during daytime television the ideal contact should there be an actual an emergency when this new doctor is looking at my hoooohaw.

Until next time...

XOXO

Who moved my Febreeze?

Hello my lovelies,

I realize I just posted one of these, but weekends are the loneliest part of my new big girl life and frankly I'm feeling wordy, so just consider this a double dose of Ronda.  Comeonnow, who doesn't want a little more Ronda.  I guess it's feasible (read probable) that you DON'T actually want a little more Ronda.  Furthermore, I do recognize the irony in touting it as "a little more Ronda" cause, yeah, well, even I realize that a "little" Ronda is a whole lot more than you get in a supersize portion of most things.  Meh! What are you gonna do, I wrote it, I sent it and now you get to decide whether you want to buckle up and join this crazy train or click delete.  

I trust you've all encountered the book Who Moved My Cheese or something similar.  Since my ultimate goal is to write a self-help book, which, in the exact vein of every other self-help book on the planet, will not be even remotely helpful.  SIDEBAR: Dr. Laura Schlessinger wrote one of these worthless books titled The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands.   Bitch please!  It was bad enough that I was responsible for shopping, cooking and cleaning, if that man can't even feed his damn self his shit is gonna starve, but I digress.  Today I am going to provide you a little insight into the cast of characters I work with.  Please note that names have been changed to protect, ah hell, the names have been changed because frankly, none of them have a name that will ever be as funny as "Ms. Shay" and besides, the alliterative names I coined for them are way more fun.  

Once upon a time at Company X, which may or may not resemble a government entity, there was a motley little crew of employees.  First, we have Passive-aggressive Patty.  Pattycake loves to ask for permission before carrying out even the most mundane task.  Co. X also employs Whirlwind Whitney.  This whirling dervish is very busy!  She's doing a lot, OMG, soooooo busy!  She's always going a hundred miles a minute, BUSY, do you hear me, she is BIIZZZZZYYYY.   There is also Huffing Hanna.  Hannakin is a shy, odd little thing that is so skinny she'd probably blow away in a gentle breeze, save for the fact she wears 18-pounds of makeup to provide sufficient ballast to keep her anchored to the ground.  It seems like having that much weight on her face would impact her center of gravity, but she doesn't seem overly trippy, so I guess she's adapted well.  Then there is Jerkstore Jack.  Jackass is... Well, he's a self-righteous, ego-maniacal dick with a superiority complex and an ample supply of video games which he uses, quite effectively, to help pass the time between when the work day starts and when it ends.  Yay achievers!  Finally we have Bitchy Ronda.  She is bitchy and her name is Ronda.  Spoiler alert, I play one of the characters in this story -- betcha can't guess which one I am.  

For many moons all was right with the universe.  When they weren't busying themselves with the dubious tasks of asking permission or electronically defeating the bad guy in video games Patty Pan and JJ spend their remaining hours making up odd little pet-names for one another.  Since neither of them do much real work they have LOTS of time to play the goofy-ass pet-name game.  Whirly-Derv-Whitters has been doing a LOT, for four months she was talking to EVERYONE and doing stuff, like, kind of a lot of stuff.  Not like the kind of stuff that you like actually define a strategy for or write down, but like stuff, you know what I mean, a lot of stuff!  Oh and did I mention she was BUSY, very busy!  All the while Hannabug mostly just hides in her little hovel spraying her can of Febreeze and reapplying the ill-advised lipstick shade she selected that morning.  Then one day the blissfully dull, unmotivated balance was upended when most horrible beast, Bitchy Ronda, entered the picture.  Bitchy is bossy!  She thinks that people should work efficiently and effectively and actually get shit done, or at least pretend to do the work that they are being paid to do.  It's such an unnatural shift that the people of Company X aren't really sure how to deal with her.  

Surprise!  That one is me. I am Bitchy Ronda!  I'm the horrible beast!  I know, shocking, isn't it. (insert eye-roll - BIG eye-roll - here)

Zip it Townsend! 

I'm not entirely kidding about this.  Ding and Dong really do call each other by the most ridiculous pet-names all day, every day.  Please note, I don't for a minute think there is anything going on between them, I think they are just both weird.   Whirlwind Whitney, is really nice and actually a lot of fun to be around, but she has spent months doing a lot of stuff, though she never bothered to define or document any of it.  Now she gets defensive when asked to explain all of the incredibly "valuable work" that has kept her busy all these months.  Since I am going to own the thing she's been building, a tremendous amount of my time and mental energy, is spent trying to decipher what she did and most importantly why.  Finally, Huffing Hanna and that damn can of Febreeze.  I wish I was joking about this.  For the last few weeks I've walked out of the building with a headache nearly every afternoon.  I knew there was a perfumey stench, but I wasn't entirely sure of the source and since by the end of week six I'd already exceeded my six-month quota of pissing people off I opted to STFU and deal!  Late Thursday when I walked by her cubicle on the way to chat with my boss I noticed a purple, aerosol can of Febreeze on her desk.  I'm not sure if she has a flatulence problem she's trying to mask or what the story is with the Febreeze, but it's terrible.  Now that I know the source I will NOT act like PA-Patty and I'm going engage her in a collegially chat on Monday to ask her to tone down the Febreeze.  

Working with Passive-aggressive Patty is the biggest challenge for me.  Shortly, after I started I made a joke about being empowered just as soon as we get permission.  PaP is the source of, and constant fodder for, that joke.  Last last week I had an epiphany when I realized that continually asking for permission is the ultimate act of passive-aggressive behavior.  If she asked for permission then she always has someone to blame if things go awry.  There is absolutely ZERO accountability because someone told her to do whatever, so it's never her lack of knowledge, skill, ability, reasoning or judgement to blame.  There is ALWAYS someone else in that line of fire.  Recently, I made a very aggressive pitch to my boss to let me take on more work to improve the process without asking permission.  While, I realize that it sounds like I'm bitching about asking for permission then I went and asked for permission, but I assure you my "permission" request most definitely was not interpreted as passive-aggressive.   In fact, my boss responded with a shocked look on his face and said something like "that's a big challenge are you really sure what you are committing to."  I'm confident that he has never felt like I was being overly passive. 

My poor boss!  He's a very lovely man, but his life was so much more peaceful before Bitchy, Raucous Ronda came into his life.  I swear I have the best of intentions, my approach is just considerably more aggressive than what most of the poor, unsuspecting suckers at Company X are accustomed to.  

I swear I really am trying to play nice, I just suck at that!

Until next time...

XOXO

Practically a native...

Hello my lovelies,

Full disclosure I'm writing this at 3AM because my body refuses to sleep.  At 9PM I can not stay away, at 1AM I am wide awake.  After two hours of tossing and turning I decided to make a cup of tea and while I waited for the kettle to boil I thought I whine to you, my unsuspecting victims.  

A couple of google searches have indicated that based on my age, current stress level and weight, this latest insomnia phase may be hormone driven.  Yippeee!  I'm sure happy I've still got all those baby making bits, that I never used, (You're welcome!) hanging around doing nothing for me, at least nothing productive.  Not to say that suddenly developing the ability to grow a beard isn't a valuable skill for a single, forty-something female to possess.  Amiright!  Full disclosure, it's not a full beard, but the need to check daily for rogue chin hairs is really not my favorite thing, but hey, since I don't waste all those hours sleeping anymore at least monitoring the growth of facial hair gives me something productive to do.  FMYLIFE!

Now as much as I know you all are enjoying reading about the special relationship I've developed with my tweezers, that's not actually the story I wanted to regale you with.  This coffee is dedicated to the new breed of Coloradans that were not born here, but apparently are so proud to live here that they've labeled themselves as "Practically Natives."   I am a legitimate Colorado native and proud as I am of that fact I don't actually need a NATIVE bumper sticker on my Volvo, though that would be a very Colorado way to tout my NATIVE pride.    

I think Colorado is great!  It's beautiful, we have a fabulous climate, the sun shines most of the time, we have amazing breweries on practically every corner that isn't already inhabited by a Starbucks, which is to say roughly 1/3 of all street corners, but I digress.  Apparently, as a native I should brag about this.  Unfortunately, I didn't realize, until I met with our PMO managers last week that labeling yourself as "Practically a Native" was such a braggable thing.  Now that I know this fun fact, I've spent some time (not sleeping affords me lots of that) thinking about all of the things I "practically" am.  

I am "practically" an ultra-marathon runner because when I am jaywalking across the street during my daily commute I occasionally have jog to avoid getting my fat-ass killed.  Since I walk about 8 miles a day, I jaywalk frequently and I have not been hit by a car yet.  I think that qualifies me as "practically" an ultra-marathoner and a pretty darn good one at that.   (Stay tuned, if we have a rainy spring, I will likely become "Practically" an Ironman.)

Since my ultra-marathon skills have me in top physical shape (Squishy is considered a shape, right?) I think I can also consider myself "practically" a supermodel.  FACT the average supermodel is 5'10" tall, I am practically that tall.  In fact I am at least that tall when I'm using my little step ladder to reach crap on the high-shelves from the cupboards in my apartment.  (The second shelf is considered a high-shelf to most people, right?)  The average supermodel weighs 126 pounds.  PFFFFTTT - paaaaleease, I practically triple that making me a super-dee-duper supermodel.  Supermodels have long flowing locks of hair.  Hmmm, well, I have hair, kind of a lot of hair actually, (I trust you didn't forget the intro to this little gem) and while the mop on my head certainly can't be considered long or flowing, I don't subscribe to the theory that the hair makes the supermodel, so I think I am still in the running for practically a supermodel.  OK, fine, so there's that whole issue of not having a chiseled jawline, (see 126lb reference above) possessing an odd shaped little nose and far from perfect teeth, but what the hell, to be an ACTUAL native all I had to do was be born in Colorado, to be practically a supermodel I have to do a lot and it's hard.  I'm not sure I want to be practically a supermodel anymore.  

Finally, at the Comic Com-themed, Halloween-potluck extravaganza I think most of my co-workers thought I was practically a buzzkill.  Correction, they knew I wasn't interested in playing those little reindeer games, so I was definitely a buzzkill, but you will be pleased to know that I did NOT wear a costume, avoided wasting hours at the video games station where my colleagues were hanging out, but most importantly managed to escape eating anything from the potluck tables,   I have pictures, but it's 3:30am and I'm too lazy to upload them to post here, so I'll save those for another day.  

My tea is gone, so I am off to bed in the hope that I can at least get a couple more hours of sleep before I have to go to work.

Until next time...

XOXO

New circus; Same damn ugly monkeys...

Hello my lovelies,

Let me begin by thanking you for the outpouring of support about the HallowConLuck conspiracy that I have been affronted with.  I'm am delighted to know that you find this traumatic trifecta entertaining and that a few of you think that I deserve to be "punked!"  I hope you are all taking great pleasure in laughing at my pain.  I am also pleased to report that Mammogram seems to be the highest recommended procedure.  Oh and thanks for the guidance that I should just completely rule out vasectomy cause the lack of boybits is a major hurdle.  Hello, I understand that boybits are kind of big thing, at least figuratively, but seriously I hate potlucks! 

I must admit that I realized, possibly, in some small way, I bring this crap on myself.  That said this is in no way, shape or form, a confirmation that I believe I deserve to be punked.  Though, now that I think about it, there may have been an instance or two, or uh, well a situation that, uummmm, OK fine I get it.  The universe is punking me because I am a jackass!  I generally suck at being a human and I don't even bother trying to be a grown-up.  ZERO EFF's GIVEN -- I stand by my position on all of this.  I don't do Halloween, ever, I don't actually even know what Comic Con is, but I promise you I don't intend to change that and I most certainly loathe potlucks.  

I've had a number of you ask how the new job is going.  I will assume that from the title of this post you were all able to infer that it is certainly not perfect.  In fact, it's a total shitshow, but frankly I think every company in every industry is pretty much a shitshow, so it's really not that different.  That said there are a few little nuggets that I couldn't resist sharing.  FWIW, those of you that are worried about me oversharing with Alex on this list, since I technically work for him, well, I'm not worried, first he knows me and still recommended that they hire me and frankly that guy is so buried I don't think he even reads this crap anymore. 

Here are just a few insights about the damn dirty apes that surround me in my new job!

We got a metrics summary from our change manager that proudly declared that some numbers are higher, some are lower and some are changing.  Yay!  Soooo actionable.  Good job you....  FMYLIFE!  Please know, that I nearly gave myself an aneurism trying to keep my eyes from rolling into the back of my head, but I am at least 55%, possibly 58% confident that I only rolled my eyes a little bit.  Ooohh lookie, metrics!  (insert eye roll)

I learned that we have a "Culture of Empowerment!" Err, well we will have that, when, or maybe if, we get permission, but we need our manager to ask his manager to ask if we can be empowered or something like that, but maybe not really empowered because that's like a lot, but maybe kind of a little bit encouraged, or probably more like suggested that we could consider doing, but only if everyone agrees.  Does everyone feel good about that? 

I'm sure you can all imagine just how fabulously I am fitting into this model...  I love you wine!  Sorry liver! 

My poor manager hates me!  He says that he loves my ideas, but it's becoming obvious that there is no way we are actually going to implement more than the most mundane process improvements that I put forth.  At this point it seems entirely possible that the only of my process improvement recommendations that they are actually considering is moving a key meeting from Tuesday to Wednesday.  Meh, that's fine!  This meeting decision is largely motivated by my need to beat the hell out of something, so I "improved" the process which cleared my calendar to accommodate a Tuesday boxing class.  FWIW, I will find a way to record boxing as a success in my performance review!  

In all seriousness, the new job is fine.  Much of the time I actually even really like it. There are a number of absolutely fantastic people and what I've seen thus far I am very impressed with the overall leadership.  That said, somehow no matter how you slice it, this job, like every other, is very much another version of the same old circus with a bunch of new clowns. 

I guess that means maybe this IS my circus and these ARE my monkeys, but I still plan to avoid the ugly apes and only play with the fun monkeys.  

Until next time...

XOXO

PS - I received a HUGE compliment when my dear friend Finnigan thought of me when he saw AssClown Brewing at the Great American Beer Fest.  Awww, I think that means I'm his favorite assclown...  Somehow, seems like less of a compliment when you put it that way.  

The luck and the pot - a conspiracy theory!

Hello my darlings,

I am alarmed to alert you that I sincerely believe I there is a mass conspiracy against me.  I haven't yet notified the authorities, mostly because I'm not sure which authority deals with this, but once I figure that out I will be reporting this!   

Now before you assume that I'm just being an alarmist, which I totally am, as usual, let me assure this really is traumatic for me.  It all started a couple of weeks ago, which, not coincidentally, is also the time I started my new job.  I don't remember for certain, but it was either day one or two in this new gig when this conspiracy began to rear her ugly head.  First, I was invited to a meeting titled "Halloween Planning"  GAH!  Uhhhhhh, noooooooooooooo - I don't DO Halloween!  Being the new kid in class is hard!  I'm still trying to hide the fact that I am a complete asshole from my coworkers, well, most of them, but I digress, so in an attempt to play nice I attended the Halloween planning meeting.  To kick off the meeting, the leader of this schtick informed us that our team's theme for Halloween would be Comic Con!  WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGG!  At this point I am fairly certain that I am being punked because I DON'T DO HALLOWEEN and I most certainly DO NOT DO Comic Con!   Since I was at the meeting and since I'm still trying to maintain an a-hole factor of <5, I sat there attempting to not look appalled (exponentially harder than it might seem) and half-ass participate in the conversation.  Luckily, I work with some serious smartasses, so we cracked a respectable number of jokes about potential costumes.  After 20 minutes I could no longer hide my loathe of all things Halloweeen, so when they began talking about a "field trip" to Party City, I politely, er mostly politely, politeishly, excused myself from the conversation.  Apparently, in honor of Halloween (BLECH) our entire work area will be transformed into Comic Con complete with superheroes, Avengers movies playing and two video game stations.   I have absolutely ZERO knowledge of all of these subjects, so now I just need to figure out how to skip out on these festivities.

Crisis averted, right?  Oh how I wish....  Mere moments after returning to my desk where I was attempting to figure out what they heck they are actually paying me to do, I recieved an email about the Halloween Potluck!  I'm not gonna lie, I considered resigning right then and there.  It was my first week in this job and I was inflicted with the trifecta of shit I don't do!  

Those of you who've been dealing with my nonsense for a while, undoubtedly remember how much I haaaaaaaaaate potlucks (aka the horror of the countless church potlucks I was forced to endure as a child, all of those post-funeral potlucks with the plethora of radioactive jello-salads and let us not forget the Ms. Shay potluck ala Christmas 2014.  #bestrootcanalever(in case you weren't privy to that whole charade I scheduled a root canal to avoid attending the company Christmas potluck)  #thatshowIpotluck

Now I am faced with a serious conundrum.  In my first 30-days at this job, with no vacation accrued, I'm taking a day off to go to New York for a long weekend.  I finally have health insurance again (yeah, I know I could have gotten health insurance early in 2017, but my life was sort of sideways and I didn't get it done, then when I tried I was no longer eligible.  fmylife!) but I have not had time to schedule any appointments.  I'm afraid it may be a long shot, but I am going to do my best to schedule some sort of procedure for Oct 31.  At this point I'm considering a colonoscopy, because that is seriously much more appealing than a Comic-Con-themed Halloween potluck at work.  A mammogram, these girls aren't getting any other attention these days, so why not go for a big boob-smooooooosh, and frankly that sounds less painful than a potluck.  I would even consider an appendectomy, though with the hell I put my liver through I probably shouldn't toss out any organs, even if they aren't doing anything.  Hell, I'd even consider a vasectomy, though I'm not actually certain I could convince a surgeon to do that, you know since I don't have any boybits and stuff, and if I did find a freak-o-surgeon, I think it's highly unlikely that insurance would cover it.  I know I've played this card once already, but I have had some tooth pain around a crown recently, so I can't rule out the possibility of another potluck induced root canal.   I love root canals, or at least the ones that get me out of playing nice a potluck.

I'll keep you posted on what I am able to schedule.

Until next time...

XOXO