Wednesday, September 29, 2010

I'll Never Be CEO

Once a year, my boss takes our entire company out to a baseball game.

Our main office is in Denver, Colorado, and our second office is in Salt Lake City, Utah. Which means half my coworkers are Mormon.

Baseball + Mormons = Me In A Coma.

You think baseball is boring? Try having a conversation with a Mormon. I know inanimate objects with more personality. Mormons can't talk about anything fun (read: sex, drugs, alcohol). Mormons can only converse about three things: kids, church, and the weather. Which means I have more in common with serial killers than I do with Mormons.

So there I was, trapped watching a baseball game with a pack of Mormons. It was more torturous than waterboarding, and my boss was Dick Cheney.
"Isn't this great?" My boss asked excitedly, like an asshole. I wanted to hit him.

The game started with the national anthem, and the Mormons stood up excitedly, their hands over their hearts. Mormons love America. They also love being white, giving birth, khaki pants, and lemonade. They don't drink alcohol, so at the baseball game they were all drinking tons and tons of lemonade.
"You likey the game?" I slurred to the Mormon sitting next to me. I was on my fifth beer (can you blame me?) and desperately trying to entertain myself. I had a baseball game in front of me (yawn) and a Mormon to my right. I imagined it was how a gay man felt in between two women: not interested in either.

"This is fun," said the Mormon, sipping his lemonade. He looked like Howdy Doodie, the puppet. And I was pretty sure the only one handling his strings was God.
"So, you've only had sex with like, one person, right?" I mumbled, noting the ring on his left hand.
"Um..." Howdy squirmed uncomfortably.
"Isn't that like going to a buffet and only eating the dinner rolls?" I continued. "I mean, there's like, prime rib, and salad, and all those yummy desserts...." I raised my eyebrows suggestively.
I heard my boss bark my name behind me, and as I turned to look at him he glared at me. I raised my beer in greeting.
"So," I said, returning to my conversation with the Mormon. "You don't want a beer? It's REAL good." I knocked back the rest of mine. "Why don't you make yourself useful and get mommy another?" I asked, shaking my empty cup in front of him.
As Howdy raced off, my boss approached me. "You really need to tone it down," he said sternly.
"Is this about me pressing my tits against the glass on the elevator?" I asked. "Because only like half the office saw that."
My boss flinched. "We really need to not completely offend the Salt Lake group," he grumbled.
"You're the one who invited them out here," I snapped. "Me making jokes about being somebody's fifth wife is just my way of coping."
"Oh, God," my boss groaned.
"You invited him too? Fuck, I am screwed," I said.

I tried to be nice to them. Like, I let Howdy hold my hair back when I ended up vomiting into a nacho platter, and I told Lisa, the 23-year-old with four kids that her body seemed to bounce back nicely after delivering her litter. All in all, I thought the evening went well.

"The Salt Lake City group left this morning," my boss told me the next day. I was hungover and his voice hurt my ears.

"Looks like my prayers have been answered," I replied, before running to the bathroom to puke again.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Retail Lies

I'm one of those people that thinks you can 'buy' yourself into a talent, a hobby, or sport. That if I purchase something, that makes up for things like actual interest in said hobby or any real skill.

When I was 18, I decided I was going to become a rock climber. So I went to some lame-ass sporting goods store where the men inside it all reek of BO and the women don't wear makeup- I guess because they're 'outdoorsy'. (Um, it's called concealer, honey- and you need it.)
"Can I help you?" The sales lady, in some horrid wind pants that made her look like the Goodyear Blimp, approached me.
"I need rock climbing gear. Because...I'm going to be a rock climber."
$350 bucks later I was walking out of the store with shoes tiny enough for an infant, a harness, and rope. I was ready to rock climb or participate in some serious S&M.

The shoes I ended up losing, the rope I used to tie down boxes on the top of my car when I moved, and the harness I ended up giving to a girlfriend who had a hyperactive four year old boy. She'd put the kid in the harness, attach a long rope to the end of it, and watch him chase leaves in the backyard for hours like a dog.
"He's SO much easier to deal with now," she told me, as we stood at the window inside her house and watched her son gnaw on a piece of wood in the backyard.
"Is that a water bowl out there?" I asked.

Once I had a dream that I was Darius Rucker, the lead singer of Hootie and the Blowfish. The next day I told my dad that I thought this was a sign that I should play the guitar.
"That's pretty weird, sweetie," my dad said.
"That I dreamed I was a black man?"
"No..." Dad paused. "That you would want a guitar," he answered. "I wasn't aware that you had any musical interest whatsoever."
I knew he was referring to the year in 5th grade when I talked my parents into buying me a saxophone, played it for 30 seconds, and then ended up getting my forearm stuck inside the bell of the horn.
"Dad- I MUST have a guitar," I pleaded. "Please?"
A month later, after my dad purchased it, I ended up trading the guitar for a bag of weed and a pair of sheepskin seat covers. Naturally, my dad was right.

I was going to be a 'fashion designer' at one point and purchased a sewing machine. I made my sister a dress that looked like I had sewn together two twin sheets and then cut a hole in the top- which I did.
"Oh, wow, this is..." My sister stood in the middle of the living room, her twin sheet dress belted at the waist, confused as all hell. "This is interesting...."
"Isn't it great?!" I asked, lying. In reality she looked like a patient in a mental institution. "You should wear it out tonight!"

My basement is littered with all my fake interests- a punching bag when I was going to be a kick-boxer, skies from when I was a skier, and tons of painting supplies when I decided I was going to paint. I think the only time I used them is when a couple of my friends got drunk at my house, passed out, and I ended up painting pictures of dicks on their faces. Picasso I'm not.

If I truly want to be honest with myself- I really don't have any talent or interest in anything. The only thing I truly know how to do, and do well- is be funny.

And, luckily for me, funny is free.