Sunday, April 24, 2011

Playground Rules Apply

Malcolm Forbes said "If you have a job without aggravation, you don't have a job". Well folks, I definitely have a job. And while that job is pretty great and I love Bloggle, there are still days I want to run screaming from the building, arms flailing. The details aren't important. Big picture; remember that kid on the playground that didn't play well with others? The one who threw stones and pushed kids off the monkey bars? Well, guess what, he grew up (physically at least), and chances are he, or his sister or cousin or someone else in that rotten family of his, is working in your office, or factory or job site. I know this because he works at my office too. And it doesn't seem right. Seriously buddy? It wasn't bad enough you put sand in my diaper and tripped me during hopscotch? Ya gotta show up at work? At my place of employment? You're not fooling me with that button down shirt. Just because you're not wearing overalls two sizes too big and you've managed to dislodge that index finger from your left nostril does not mean I don't recognize you.

I can't comprehend how King of the Swing Wedgie wriggled his way into my adult life. I don't understand how these people (swing wedgie people of the world) manage to make it past the bacteria infected scabs, through the acne breakouts and out of some character flawed university with a diploma, holding no karmic refute to speak of.

Now, I could stay wallowing in my bath of bitter and angry and grumpy-pants, wondering how life can be this cruel but that lump three feet above my ass occasionally decides to do it's job. It starts as a vague memory of Wedgie Man alone during snack time, meanders into high school fist fights and ends with the email address that gets left off the cocktail hour invite, because answering the question "Who brought that guy?" is infinitely more painful than "Hey, why didn't anyone invite me?". That rare gift Perspective drops some much needed insight into my lap. It's much better to deal with Wedgie Man than to actually be him. That's not to say I don't have a the occasional urge to staple his eyelids to the wall. I may have to put up with his ugly personality, but I don't have to look at it in the mirror every morning. And that makes it a hell of a lot easier to get up and go to work every day.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Love Letters to Retail

I've mentioned I spend a lot more time spending money on stuff these days. Enter inspirations for my Love Letters to Retail. My expectation is that this will be first of a series of short and long-term love affairs. Enjoy...

Dearest Target,
I love you. When I walk through the automatic sliding doors I am immediately flooded with your bright abrasive red marketing, like Communism... but nicer. I love how your clothes always look more expensive than they actually are and when people comment on them I get to say "Why, thank you, Target (which I pronounce "tar-jay"). You have an excellent hair accessory aisle and your clientele is significantly less smelly than at your bastard cousin Walmart's store. You are wonderful, but Target, oh why? Why when I search for single Reases Peanut Butter eggs, are there none? Why do you have giant bins of 6 packs, 12 packs and family sized bags of those delicious treats but not one single wrapped egg? I know you love me for who I am but I'm trying to REDUCE the size of me rear end and you're just not helping me with this. I still love you, I do, but I think we need to spend some time apart, at least until after all of the Easter candy is gone.
Yours Always