Good Clean Living

You know, or you will when I tell you, I cleaned up a little bit around the apartment tonite. Nothing huge, the sink, the toilet, one of my under-the-bed boxes. I found a fake newsletter I had written while I was working at Hell on Earth, aka, Unnamed Firm & Co.

Unnamed Firm & Co., I'm sorry, Unnamed E. Firm & Co., is what is known as an investor relations firm. That basically means they throw luncheons for companies getting ready to go public and they invite a bunch of plate-lickers (platelickers?)* to fill the seats. The plate-lickers are from firms such as Smith Barney and A.G. Edwards, etc., those kinds of places. And really, only a few of the attendees are real plate-lickers by very definition. Anyhoo, they almost always serve chicken at these luncheons, but the steadfast, seat-filling, plate-lickers would always ask for fish instead. Yeesh. The fish-eating plate-lickers were usually old men. And no, I'm not sure why I keep yammering about this. Or why anyone would want to go back to the office smelling like fish. But I digress.

Actually, speaking of fish, one day at the office I smelled something foul and horrendous. (Actually, most days that happened.) But this time it smelled like someone had microwaved fish, which was strange, because we didn't have a microwave. We didn't even have computers (you could bring your own if you had one) and we didn't have a new-fangled fax machine. This was 1995-96 and we had the kind where you had to pick up the receiver, dial the number, push the button, and hang up the receiver. One time the boss, who founded the company in 1950 and who more than strikingly resembled Bob Dole (only slightly better), answered his phone, heard "SQUEE," held the receiver away from his ear, and waited for the fax to come through. (It never did, but he screamed, "Marsha, I think I'm getting a fax!!!" anyway.)

But back to the fish smell....Well, we had a co-worker who was a bit heavy and who kept an industrial-size bottle of Rolaids on his desk. He sweated profusely. And when he breathed, you could hear his nose whistle. Not that I begrudge anyone's (?) breathing, but during staff meetings, it just got really annoying. He hovered, sweated, and nose-whistled the whole time. And he stank. He stank a lot. He stank of fetid sour milk coupled with the odor one might carry if he took 10,000 consecutive dumps without ever changing his pants. It was gag-worthy, to say the least. And when I learned I might have to travel with him (close quarters in a cab, or worse, an airplane), I told him I had Tourette's Syndrome and began looking in earnest for a new job.

Anyway, that afternoon (the fish smell time from up a few 'graphs) is when I learned that this man's stench permeated the office. Because no one had fish for lunch, silly. It was this man. Even when he wasn't in the office, if you left a piece of paper on his chair, it would take on the stink. It was like Siddhartha...everything he saw or touched or moved near took on his foul emanations. Like Siddhartha, I found myself being tested. (I mean I was tested on the book, not life's journey or whatever.) But unlike Siddhartha, there was nothing holy about it. Just picking up a press release from his chair involved the use of MacGyveresque pencil-and-butterfly clip contraptions.

And what's worse, the guy wasn't even nice. He yelled at people. And was belligerent. And he had a girlfriend. I don't really get it. She was nice, and very thin, and very sick. I think I heard that she jumped out of a window and killed herself at one point, but I can't be sure.

I forgot where I was going with all of this--actually I wanted to mention the redwoods but that will have to wait--but I hope it has spurred you to consider your personal hygiene, well, more than personal....It affects us all. Love the planet, love thy neighbor, seek medical help for sour stomach, and for god's sake, don't shit your pants.

Thanks!

Plate-licker: Someone who comes for the food and doesn't really stay and/or listen to the pitch. In other words, just a body to make it look like we're doing our job.

Yeah, I had the real firm name up but then it occurred to me that it would be just my luck someone would see it and I'd get my blank in a sling. Paranoid, thy name is h.

Pseudo-Cyber Packrat

Ok, so I'm a packrat. You could ask my mom, but I wouldn't, she's kinda busy right now. Actually at this hour, she might be sleeping. Which is actually even more reason not to bug her, so don't, okay?

I'm not really a cyber packrat...I'm a pseudo cyber packrat. I say this because I have the ability to delete some e-mails. Like I don't keep every one-liner e-mail my friends send me. Then again, I *do* keep every one I've ever written (with a few exceptions. See, I can still lay claim to the pseudosity of it all. And I don't want to hear if pseudosity is not a word, ok?).

Anyhoo...I was looking through some of my old "sent" e-mails to see when I'd last written to a friend when I got sidetracked and just started clicking on random sent mails. Here is a sampling of what has poured forth from my poor carpal-laden fingers. (I mean carpal tunnel-laden, sheesh.) I'll give them titles for easier categorization.

Sample 1 or What wasn't I smoking when I wrote this:
hope you had a good weekend. part of mine was spent at some weird polish bar for a birthday party. there was a polka band and everything. also the barmaids had about as good a grasp on both liquor and the english language as a cement fish lawn ornament might. (no offense to any cement fish lawn ornaments who may have intercepted and read this email.)

Sample 2: Wherein the carotid (I mean careted) text ain't mine:
>I see you're still enjoying info. regarding Chicago fires. It's nice to
>know that there are some constants in the universe!!

thought you would enjoy that. tho for the record (yeh i'm a big stickler aren't i) i think this is the only chicago-fire book i've read. the cocoanut grove was boston, and the circus fire (another great read!) was in connecticut i think. fire scares the bejabbers out of me. consequently, i have no bejabbers...

Sample 3: A kinder, shortler (sic) e-mail:
So there's a story on Yahoo! about how gene therapy has restored a dog's sight. I'm about to go read it..i'm curious as to how they know the treatment was successful. Like did they say, "bark once if you can see where we threw the ball," or what? Gene therapy rules...

Sample 4: The recounting does no justice:
me, not much up here. today i was talking to my boss, he was telling me about how he was going to have to respond to someone's new policy draft for something, and that the guy was probably going to hate him. so i said, "so what if he hates you, everybody" then i stopped abruptly, i'd been meaning to say "dies" as if, like, so what if he hates you, everybody dies at some point. but realized it might be kind of tasteless so i just didn't say anything at all. but my boss..comedian that he is, immediately said, "does" after i stopped. probably a 'you had to be there thing' but it was really funny. "so what if he hates you, everybody" "does." :-) just good timing.

ok i'm not making much sense so i'm gonna shove off.
(off hates it when i do that)

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Yeah. I'm not exactly sure what I gained by basically cutting and pasting old e-mail text, but you know, whatever. (Actually I think I just solidified myself as the laziest blog-writer ever.)

A Treatise on Words (not really)

Ever taught your boss a new phrase or word? It seems like I'm always doing this, using language people just haven't heard of before. I know that West Virginia (where I'm from) is often considered the boonies, but it's not like I'm making stuff up here. Here's an example of something I've said lately; try to figure out the terminology in question.

"Well, Charlie said today, October first, was the day we usually get bonuses, and he's worked here a billion years. But we're not getting any bonuses this year 'cause IS screwed the pooch with the nine-and-a-half million dollar overrun."

If you said "we're not getting any bonuses," you are wrong, sorry. I think pretty much every working (and non-working) American knows what that means.

If you said "screwed the pooch," ding-ding-ding, you're the lucky prizewinner. Read an interesting entry about this phrase's origin.

And while you're at it, read my entry about online dating, it's so much better than this, but my bro. keeps bugging me to post so like, I gotta please him, right? (Sorry, Rick Nelson.)