Final Catch-up: Why do Nice Guys like me?

Umm… I apologize for the suspense let-down, but I think I’m going to pass on telling this tale, as I fear that the subject of the tale is perhaps a reader of this here blog.

For the record, if you are a reader, “Jay,” I wasn’t going to say anything mean about you.  I genuinely do think you’re a nice guy, a funny guy, a talented and creative guy.  You just weren’t the guy for me, and I would’ve written a Ruby-typical sarcasm-laden entry about such events.  But I won’t.

Unless I discover that the regular reader I have from the Seattle suburbs isn’t you, in which case:

So there was this guy, we’ll call him Jay…

Kidding.

(Not really).

Random thought (not Christmas Catch-up related). (Possibly Ketchup related).

So there I am last night, making my weekly super-awesome (and super-healthy!) chicken salad when it drunkenly occurs to me that there is so much genius happening in my kitchen, that it needs to be shared.  I thought to myself, “self, you have a blog!  Share your culinary secrets with the world!  You will be legendary!  They will make marble busts of you!  Do it.”

Okay, so I won’t be legendary.  No busts will be happening.  And there’s a strong chance that anything I have to say is either commonly known, and I’m the moron who caught on 27 years too late, or… is wrong/illegal/likely to get your fingers chopped off/poison your family, etc.

However, I’d like to give it the good ol’ drinking challenge try.  What do y’all say?  Select as many options as you deem applicable.

Catch-up Story #2: The Neighbours’ Revenge

Christmas Eve I returned home from work to find a large gift back on my door step.  Homemade baked goods.  From the next door neighbours.

At first my jaw kind of dropped and I had this sudden rush of some foreign emotion hitting me – guilt?  A conscience?  Weird.

Here all I do is mock them, mock their son, and give them expired butter, and they provide me with way more cookies and tarts and treats than I could personally eat in what remains of 2009.  It was a Grinch-like moment of my heart growing five sizes.

Yeah, until I sampled a few of the cookies and my face morphed into a Grinch-like grimace.

Well played, neighbours, well played.

Catch-up Story #1: Christmas Eve

A new drinking game was invented for Christmas Eve at my Aunt Charlotte’s:  Choke on your drink every time your non-blood related 18ish year old second cousin says something racist, homophobic, or just otherwise completely insensitive and/or insane.

Result: hacked up a lung on Christmas Eve.

Closed for Jesus

Yeah, sorry about the lack of posting… it’s hard to force myself to sit down and write something when it’s so much easier to sleep.  Or drink.  Or play with my new Christmas presents, which, oddly enough, involve new bedding and multiple bottles of liquor.

Anyway, I’ll be back soon enough with lots of fun stories to catch up.  Coming up on RubyRoark: The Neighbours’ Revenge.  Also, Why Do Nice Guys Like Me?  And lastly, there’s a common household item that you use every day that may be killing you — what it is and more after the break.

Today’s life lesson: How to Amuse One’s Self at Family Events

Tonight I’ll be going to my Aunt Charlotte’s house.  I’ve been going there for Christmas Eve since I was born, though the number of people joining me as dwindled so significantly that I now go alone.  Merry Christmas to me.

It’s an odd arrangement: it’s my aunt, whom I love dearly, and then pretty much 99% of the other guests are her husband’s kids from a previous marriage and their kids.  I only see these non-blood-related “cousins” and “second cousins” this one time a year, I can’t keep all their names straight, and seeing as I don’t keep up on small town football news, I don’t have much to talk to them about.

I tend to sit in a corner by myself, sipping wine, and keeping a running mental tally of the number of times the sports participation of my second cousins is mentioned.  I often lose track before glass #2 is poured.

I used to play a fun drinking game with myself called “take a sip every time my cousin Helga hits on my other cousin Jamie’s husband.”  Jamie enjoyed this game as well.  Really, the only loser was Jamie’s husband, Jim; he was never amused.  However, Helga won’t be joining us this year.  Everyone’s loss, really.  Especially since Helga got her concealed weapon permit a couple of years ago and likes to throw back a few brewskies and then take it out for show and tell.  Again, Jim, a state trooper, is never amused.  I am, though.

Jim’s actually the one who taught me how to shoot.  Haven’t been in awhile, sadly.  We had a nice bond going over that until one of those second cousins whose names I can’t keep straight took the hero worship path a little too far and decided he, too, wanted to be a state trooper.  So now he falls over himself to monopolize Jim’s time at family events.

Hmm… do I sense a new drinking game in the works?

How to Properly Entertain Yourself During Company Functions, or: How to Manipulate People into Being Your Friend

Yesterday, as I mentioned, was our company holiday party.  As it was a three hour sit-down meal, seating arrangements were key (Grandmother has taught me well).  I placed myself strategically with Only Other Under 30 Person in the Company, Ted, to my right.

Ted, a few months ago, sort of asked me out?  Maybe?  It was unclear.  I replied maybe?  I think?  I guess I was unclear as well.  All I know is that he never replied to my maybe and that was that.

Obviously, after a few glasses of wine at the company holiday party where I’ve strategically forced myself in close quarters with him for three hours is the mature way of tackling this situation head-on.  I may be anti-confrontational, but I’m not anti-awkward.

The first hour passes with nary any eye contact nor speaking with each other; I focused on conversing with the people to my left.

After discussing my staunch guidelines for my Disney movie collection (must be theatrically released and must contain at least some animation), then discussing New Orleans, I moved the conversation on to hot peppers.  (Booze, as a topic of conversation, would be brought up afterward; I’m a four-trick pony.  If we had more time, perhaps I could’ve told everyone about my neighbours and my cats).

I’m in the middle of explaining the Scoville Scale and my life’s goal of eating the world’s hottest pepper, when Ted turns to me and interrupts to ask, “are you talking about the ghost pepper?”

If this were a Nora Ephron movie, this would be the point where we gaze into each other’s eyes and just know that we’re meant to be together.

But as it was, instead, our company’s holiday party at a suburban Italian restaurant, I looked at him skeptically and said, “yeah, what do you know about it?”and was then regaled with the story of his Indian friend smuggling fresh ghost peppers into the US and another friend eating one whole and almost requiring a trip to the ER.  Kids.

I called dibs the next time the friend was making a trip to Mumbai.

Once the ice had been broken, we were free to continue with severely awkward small talk closely resembling a job interview.  Despite making sure I played up my technical strengths and extensive background in the art of sarcasm, I walked away at the end of the lunch not overly confident.  Should I have invented some story about volunteer work?  References! — I forgot to give him my references!  Rookie mistake.

And yet, upon arriving home later that evening, what was that in my inbox?  A Facebook friend request from Ted?  Oh yeah.

Nailed it.

AAAHHHGGERIGHAAAAAAAAAA <– How I feel

I kind of feel like someone punched me in the gut, told me my trip to Disney World was canceled, and then threatened to hurt my cats.

Definitely the perfect mood with which to enter my company’s three hour sit-down holiday luncheon, wouldn’t you agree?

I’m aware that posting this is dangerous, but it needs to be said

I know I made a vow to never discuss work on here so as to maintain some semblance of “job security,” but I can’t take it anymore!!  I need to vent about this!!!  And the fact of the matter is, I’m so inarguably correct on this matter, that I don’t care who sees this!  Hell, I ought to send the link to this post directly to HR so as to have them deal with it!*

Here goes, the long-overdue Open Letter to Obnoxious Bodily Functions Guy:

Dear Obnoxious Bodily Functions Guy,

I hate you.

Your lack of consideration for others/complete ignorance to your surroundings makes me wonder if you were raised in the wild by baboons – and not just any baboons, but socially spurned baboons who were no longer welcome with the rest of the more polite, poo-flinging baboons.

Yes, you have an office, but I have news for you: it is not a sound proof-booth.  Especially with the door open.  I have the misfortune of residing in a cubicle directly in front of your office.  I (as well as many others in your wake) get to listen to you belch and fart all day long.

And what’s with the tooth-brushing!?!?  Bravo on the oral hygiene, but do you think you could do that in the men’s room?!?!  Why, oh why must you brush your teeth in your office, and then get up and continue to brush your teeth as you walk past my cube (and others’ cubes!) to the kitchen to spit it out??   THREE TIMES A DAY!!

I hear you’ve come down with a little something.  Actually, I’m pretty sure that the boys out back in the manufacturing area heard you came down with a little something, as you’ve spent the majority of this morning hawking loogies at a volume comparable to trying to start a lawn mower.

I hate you.  I hate you I hate you I hate you.

I know; I’m weird.  I’m a delicate little flower whose skin crawls at the mere thought of farting.  I don’t even like the word “fart.”  I can’t stand people chewing with their mouths open.  Sometimes, I can’t stand people chewing with their mouths shut.  Loud breathing is akin to noise a vacuum makes.  And I won’t even let my cats bathe themselves near me because I don’t like the sounds of their tongues on their fur.

But COME ON.  YOU SIR, ARE RIDICULOUS!!!  Your trespasses are so heinous, I fail to comprehend how you can’t see how disgusting you are.   And if you are truly that oblivious, how is it no one’s said anything to you ever?!? You’re so vile, you make me want to cry.

Please kill yourself.

Sincerely,

Ruby

Seriously… the situation is getting dangerous.  I’m a very non-confrontational person unless I’m cornered, upon which I go ninja assassin ape shit on the problem.  And frankly, his behavior is so offensive and so persistent, it is actually starting to make me feel emotionally cornered.  I started with just muttering things to myself when he commits these… acts.  But my utterances are  slowly getting louder.  After round three of the loogies this morning, I actually said, “fuck you” at a decent volume.  I don’t think he heard me, but still… it’s getting dangerous.  I fear what I may end up doing beyond my control.

Making The Evil Stop is a justifiable excuse for arson, yes?

____________________________________________

*Groveling Open Letter to HR in the event I’m caught:

Dear HR,

Let’s try and look beyond the profanities, dire hatred, and death threats and face facts: he’s wrong, and I’m right.

If anyone should be fired over this little “incident,” it should clearly be him.  Or at the very least, ship him off to some finishing school for uncouth middle aged men and you can put me in anger management.  A win-win, yes?

Afterall, it’s the holiday season: we should all forgive and love and blah blah (unless you’re publicly emitting more gas than ozone-killing cattle -– no forgiveness for that).  So just hit the back button on your browser; forget you ever saw this page, and perhaps find me a new cubicle far, far away from the gross man.

I’ll buy bake you some cookies!

Vaya con Dios,

Alice

What am I drinking tonight?

Glad you asked.

This here is a Junior Mint Martini.  A Mint Chocolate Chip Martini.  A Grasshopper Pie Martini.  I Haven’t Yet Settled on an Official Name Martini.

To make, combine:

1 part vodka

2 parts Peppermint Schnapps

1/2 part Frangelico

1/2 Godiva Chocolate Liquer

4-6 parts milk, to taste (or, if you’re a lactard like me (or just wish you were), skim Lactaid (I like the one with extra calcium!))

Shake over ice and serve in a martini glass with candy cane sugared rim if you’re feeling classy.

If you’re feeling, “what?  I’m not drinking; it’s 8:30 in the morning!  This is just a chocolate milk!,” then serve in a large 32 oz. plastic cup.  Be sure to play up the benefits of calcium and vitamin D in a healthy diet.

I knew this blog was missing something.  Ruby Roark — now with recipes!