Beth Labonte's Blog, page 2
July 10, 2014
Study Reveals That Yes, This Is What It's All About, Sorry
A ten year study, conducted by a local administrative assistant, has concluded that yes, this is what life is all about. Filing and typing and answering the telephone. This is as good as it's going to get for you. Sorry.
The administrative assistant in charge of the study followed her own career over the course of a ten year period, making detailed case notes on social media such as "Can't they order their own fucking sandwiches?" and "WHAT IS THAT SMELL?? #cubiclessuck". The administrative assistant dedicated every waking moment of her life to the study, except for weekends when she completely forgot that the study existed. But then Monday came along and goddammit, the study started again.
While initial findings and inspirational Facebook memes indicated that there was still a sliver of hope, by the end of the ten year period it was clear that no, this is pretty much it. Printing labels and sticking them onto file folders one hundred times in a row is the reason that you were given the gift of life and born into this world, so you'd better just get used to it.
As a control group, the administrative assistant studied the careers of several friends who did not enter into the field of administrative support. Such friends include Lisa, who thinks she's special just because she became a lawyer, Mark, who thinks he's cool just because he became a player for the NBA, and Tara who thinks she's hot shit because she plays the violin for an orchestra in Vienna.
Vienna!
Preliminary results indicated that you shouldn't have even bothered going to college, while by the end of the ten year period it was confirmed that yes, college was a total waste of your parent's money. Further research also found that when you want something, all of the universe conspires in helping you achieve it, except in your case. Just forget it. I mean, it's been ten years.
Complete results of the study may be found on the administrative assistant's Facebook newsfeed, Blogger page, and within several thousand emails to her administrative coworkers who used to be content in their careers but have since concluded that shit, she's right.
The administrative assistant in charge of the study followed her own career over the course of a ten year period, making detailed case notes on social media such as "Can't they order their own fucking sandwiches?" and "WHAT IS THAT SMELL?? #cubiclessuck". The administrative assistant dedicated every waking moment of her life to the study, except for weekends when she completely forgot that the study existed. But then Monday came along and goddammit, the study started again.
While initial findings and inspirational Facebook memes indicated that there was still a sliver of hope, by the end of the ten year period it was clear that no, this is pretty much it. Printing labels and sticking them onto file folders one hundred times in a row is the reason that you were given the gift of life and born into this world, so you'd better just get used to it.
As a control group, the administrative assistant studied the careers of several friends who did not enter into the field of administrative support. Such friends include Lisa, who thinks she's special just because she became a lawyer, Mark, who thinks he's cool just because he became a player for the NBA, and Tara who thinks she's hot shit because she plays the violin for an orchestra in Vienna.
Vienna!
Preliminary results indicated that you shouldn't have even bothered going to college, while by the end of the ten year period it was confirmed that yes, college was a total waste of your parent's money. Further research also found that when you want something, all of the universe conspires in helping you achieve it, except in your case. Just forget it. I mean, it's been ten years.
Complete results of the study may be found on the administrative assistant's Facebook newsfeed, Blogger page, and within several thousand emails to her administrative coworkers who used to be content in their careers but have since concluded that shit, she's right.
July 2, 2014
How We're Celebrating Independence Day Week At The Office
*Complete financial dependence on corporation.
*Timesheets due July 3rd.
*Halfhearted "Happy Fourth!" to jerkoffs leaving office at 2:00 p.m. on July 2nd.
*Contemplating alternate world where United States never gained independence from England, and how fulfilling and cool our alternate British careers probably would have been.
*Increase in white paper, red and blue pen use.
*Delighting coworkers by performing Stars & Stripes Forever cymbal crashes at random moments throughout week.
*Hot dog eating contest alone in car, just like last Wednesday.
*Setting off Roman Candle. Somewhere. You'll see.
*Timesheets due July 3rd.
*Halfhearted "Happy Fourth!" to jerkoffs leaving office at 2:00 p.m. on July 2nd.
*Contemplating alternate world where United States never gained independence from England, and how fulfilling and cool our alternate British careers probably would have been.
*Increase in white paper, red and blue pen use.
*Delighting coworkers by performing Stars & Stripes Forever cymbal crashes at random moments throughout week.
*Hot dog eating contest alone in car, just like last Wednesday.
*Setting off Roman Candle. Somewhere. You'll see.
How We're Celebrating Independence Day Week At The Office
*Complete financial dependence on corporation.
*Timesheets due July 3rd.
*Halfhearted "Happy Fourth!" to jerkoffs leaving office at 2:00 p.m. on July 2nd.
*Contemplating alternate world where United States never gained independence from England, and how fulfilling and cool our alternate British careers probably would have been.
*Increase in white paper, red and blue pen use.
*Delighting coworkers by performing Stars & Stripes Forever cymbal crashes at random moments throughout week.
*Hot dog eating contest alone in car, just like last Wednesday.
*Setting off Roman Candle. Somewhere. You'll see.
*Timesheets due July 3rd.
*Halfhearted "Happy Fourth!" to jerkoffs leaving office at 2:00 p.m. on July 2nd.
*Contemplating alternate world where United States never gained independence from England, and how fulfilling and cool our alternate British careers probably would have been.
*Increase in white paper, red and blue pen use.
*Delighting coworkers by performing Stars & Stripes Forever cymbal crashes at random moments throughout week.
*Hot dog eating contest alone in car, just like last Wednesday.
*Setting off Roman Candle. Somewhere. You'll see.
June 25, 2014
"His thoughts became gloomy again. All this was very far...
"His thoughts became gloomy again. All this was very far removed from the life to which he had looked forward. There are some people who take naturally to a life of commerce. Mike was not of these. To him the restraint of the business was irksome. He had been used to an open-air life, and a life, in its way, of excitement. He gathered that he would not be free till five o'clock, and that on the following day he would come at ten and go at five, and the same every day, except Saturdays and Sundays, all the year round, with a ten days' holiday. The monotony of the prospect appalled him. He was not old enough to know what a narcotic is Habit, and that one can become attached to and interested in the most unpromising jobs. He worked away dismally at his letters till he had finished them. Then there was nothing to do except sit and wait for more."
"His thoughts became gloomy again. All this was ver...
"His thoughts became gloomy again. All this was very far removed from the life to which he had looked forward. There are some people who take naturally to a life of commerce. Mike was not of these. To him the restraint of the business was irksome. He had been used to an open-air life, and a life, in its way, of excitement. He gathered that he would not be free till five o'clock, and that on the following day he would come at ten and go at five, and the same every day, except Saturdays and Sundays, all the year round, with a ten days' holiday. The monotony of the prospect appalled him. He was not old enough to know what a narcotic is Habit, and that one can become attached to and interested in the most unpromising jobs. He worked away dismally at his letters till he had finished them. Then there was nothing to do except sit and wait for more."
June 9, 2014
Monday Morning Wodehouse
"Master Maloney was no early bird. Larks who rose in his neighborhood, rose alone. He did not get up with them. He was supposed to be at the office at nine o'clock. It was a point of honor with him, a sort of daily declaration of independence, never to put in an appearance before nine-thirty. On this particular morning he was punctual to the minute, or half an hour late, whichever way you choose to look at it."
June 2, 2014
The Great Outdoors
My four year old son is not an outdoor person. This works out smashingly because a) we moved from a condo to a house so that we could have a backyard, and b) my husband spends 6,000 hours a month cutting the grass.
I’m not an outdoor person either, especially not when we have moths like this one hanging out at the front door, big enough to sell me a set of encyclopedias:
And also this guy, hanging out around back waiting to slit my throat:
No, I can’t say that I blame him. Bugs are icky and having to slather on sunscreen is the absolute worst (drinkable sunscreen anyone?) But the weather is finally nice, we dropped a load of cash on this place, and there’s that thing I mentioned earlier about my husband not having dismounted the riding mower since 2012. SO WE KIND OF HAVE TO USE THE YARD. Life isn’t fair, kiddo.
Out we go into the yard with a selection of bats, balls, gardening equipment, Velcro catchy things, bubbles, plastic lawnmowers, watering cans, gardening gloves, and assorted other crap that has a picture of Lightning McQueen on it because, let's face it, everything has a picture of Lightning McQueen on it - and it's only going to get worse with the upcoming release of Cars 3.
“What do you want to do first?” I ask, picturing him leaping gleefully across the lawn, the dog that we will never have because I hate dogs, chasing joyfully behind. It’s a beautiful image.
“I don’t WANT to play outside!” he declares. He collapses onto his knees, then, upon realizing that he has collapsed into grass that has bugs in it, springs to his feet and runs around in circles squealing.
“But it’s so nice outside. Do you want to play in your sandbox?” I point to the sandbox that my husband spent a month building and is now the storage area for lawn chairs when he cuts the grass.
"I want to go inside."
"What did we even buy this house for?"
"What?"
"Never mind."
Eventually, after a thorough application of bug spray, he will relent and agree to play some baseball. This is until, by some fluke of physics, I happen to hit the ball clear across the yard.
"How come I'M not as good as mummy?"
(Seriously, he thinks I'm good at sports.)
"I'm not good, I just got lucky. You can do it too, you just have to keep practicing."
"I want to go inside."
"We're not going inside yet."
Baseball is over. Child goes over to a ceramic turtle, lifts it up, and releases about fifty gazillion ants in close proximity to his feet. Somehow he's totally okay with this. We all stand around for a while watching the ceramic turtle become engulfed in tiny black moving dots. It's rather peaceful.
Wait, what's that sound?
"BEE!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I'll let you decide if it was me, my husband, or my son, that just screamed and ran full speed through the wall of our house like Wylie Coyote.
It doesn't matter. We're inside now.
I’m not an outdoor person either, especially not when we have moths like this one hanging out at the front door, big enough to sell me a set of encyclopedias:
And also this guy, hanging out around back waiting to slit my throat:
No, I can’t say that I blame him. Bugs are icky and having to slather on sunscreen is the absolute worst (drinkable sunscreen anyone?) But the weather is finally nice, we dropped a load of cash on this place, and there’s that thing I mentioned earlier about my husband not having dismounted the riding mower since 2012. SO WE KIND OF HAVE TO USE THE YARD. Life isn’t fair, kiddo.
Out we go into the yard with a selection of bats, balls, gardening equipment, Velcro catchy things, bubbles, plastic lawnmowers, watering cans, gardening gloves, and assorted other crap that has a picture of Lightning McQueen on it because, let's face it, everything has a picture of Lightning McQueen on it - and it's only going to get worse with the upcoming release of Cars 3.
“What do you want to do first?” I ask, picturing him leaping gleefully across the lawn, the dog that we will never have because I hate dogs, chasing joyfully behind. It’s a beautiful image.
“I don’t WANT to play outside!” he declares. He collapses onto his knees, then, upon realizing that he has collapsed into grass that has bugs in it, springs to his feet and runs around in circles squealing.
“But it’s so nice outside. Do you want to play in your sandbox?” I point to the sandbox that my husband spent a month building and is now the storage area for lawn chairs when he cuts the grass.
"I want to go inside."
"What did we even buy this house for?"
"What?"
"Never mind."
Eventually, after a thorough application of bug spray, he will relent and agree to play some baseball. This is until, by some fluke of physics, I happen to hit the ball clear across the yard.
"How come I'M not as good as mummy?"
(Seriously, he thinks I'm good at sports.)
"I'm not good, I just got lucky. You can do it too, you just have to keep practicing."
"I want to go inside."
"We're not going inside yet."
Baseball is over. Child goes over to a ceramic turtle, lifts it up, and releases about fifty gazillion ants in close proximity to his feet. Somehow he's totally okay with this. We all stand around for a while watching the ceramic turtle become engulfed in tiny black moving dots. It's rather peaceful.
Wait, what's that sound?
"BEE!!!!!!!!!!!!"
I'll let you decide if it was me, my husband, or my son, that just screamed and ran full speed through the wall of our house like Wylie Coyote.
It doesn't matter. We're inside now.
March 30, 2014
Sleeping In
He knocks on the bedroom door at 6:45 a.m., climbs into bed, slides his arm under my neck, and pulls me in so that our cheeks are squashed together. “I didn’t need to bring Lamby,” says the little voice. “I have you.” Lamby being his favorite stuffed animal, this is quite an honor. We lay there in peace for several seconds. This is nice. Maybe we’ll both fall back asleep until 9:00 a.m.
There’s a foot in my stomach. The little voice can no longer stand the silence and begins to ask questions. It begins to form hypotheses. If it’s light outside, shouldn’t we be getting up? Why aren’t we getting up if it’s light outside? The conversation abruptly turns to trail mix. They made some at school. Ingredients are listed. More questions are raised. There were pretzels in the trail mix, but there were also pretzels in anotherbowl. Why? Why is this? I MUST KNOW THIS RIGHT NOW.
I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m starting to get a crick in my neck. I roll over, check the time. 6:49. The sight of one of my eyelids popping open has set off alarm bells in his head.
HOLY SHIT IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP WE NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS BED RIGHT NOW OR WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIEEEEEEEEE
“Can we have pancakes?” he asks. Now he’s sitting up. There is zero chance that he'll lay back down again. Maybe not ever.
“Not today, buddy," I say. "We’re going to a birthday party and you’re going to have a lot of cake and stuff.”
“Why can’t we have pancakes?”
“I just told you.”
Almost imperceptibly, the little head starts to rotate. Weekends are nothing but a slow descent into The Exorcist.
“CAN WE GET UP NOW?”
“Okay, okay. I have to go to the bathroom though.” I take my phone into the bathroom and sit on the toilet. I read some Facebook and try to get my eyes to open all the way.
BANG BANG BANG
“Mummy?!”
“On the toilet.”
BANG BANG BANG
“ON THE TOILET.”
BANG BANG BANG
'WHAT?"
“I need water.”
The doorknob starts to jiggle. I wouldn't be all that surprised if he flattened himself out and slid under the door, like Judge Doom after he got steamrolled. I let him in. He gets some water. We head out into the hall.
"Let's go downstairs, buddy. I have to feed the cats."
He collapses to his knees. "I don't WANT to feed the cats."
"Okay. I didn't ask you to."
>>Insert screeching pig squeal sound here<< "What? What's the matter?"
"I WANT to feed the cats."
"Okay, go ahead then."
"NOOOO!!!"
I stare in wide-eyed silence at what I can only describe as Gollum, hunched up on the floor, arguing back and forth with himself.
Except instead of arguing about whether or not he should kill Frodo and take back his Precious, he's arguing about whether or not he wants to feed the cats. Or whether or not he wants his socks on. Or whether or not he wants a hug. This type of weirdness carries on over the course of the day. It's only a matter of time before the pea soup projectile vomit starts flying. But until then, I will assume this to be normal four year old behavior.
I check the time. 7:02.
It's going to be a long weekend.
There’s a foot in my stomach. The little voice can no longer stand the silence and begins to ask questions. It begins to form hypotheses. If it’s light outside, shouldn’t we be getting up? Why aren’t we getting up if it’s light outside? The conversation abruptly turns to trail mix. They made some at school. Ingredients are listed. More questions are raised. There were pretzels in the trail mix, but there were also pretzels in anotherbowl. Why? Why is this? I MUST KNOW THIS RIGHT NOW.
I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m starting to get a crick in my neck. I roll over, check the time. 6:49. The sight of one of my eyelids popping open has set off alarm bells in his head.
HOLY SHIT IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP WE NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS BED RIGHT NOW OR WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIEEEEEEEEE
“Can we have pancakes?” he asks. Now he’s sitting up. There is zero chance that he'll lay back down again. Maybe not ever.
“Not today, buddy," I say. "We’re going to a birthday party and you’re going to have a lot of cake and stuff.”
“Why can’t we have pancakes?”
“I just told you.”
Almost imperceptibly, the little head starts to rotate. Weekends are nothing but a slow descent into The Exorcist.
“CAN WE GET UP NOW?”
“Okay, okay. I have to go to the bathroom though.” I take my phone into the bathroom and sit on the toilet. I read some Facebook and try to get my eyes to open all the way.
BANG BANG BANG
“Mummy?!”
“On the toilet.”
BANG BANG BANG
“ON THE TOILET.”
BANG BANG BANG
'WHAT?"
“I need water.”
The doorknob starts to jiggle. I wouldn't be all that surprised if he flattened himself out and slid under the door, like Judge Doom after he got steamrolled. I let him in. He gets some water. We head out into the hall.
"Let's go downstairs, buddy. I have to feed the cats."
He collapses to his knees. "I don't WANT to feed the cats."
"Okay. I didn't ask you to."
>>Insert screeching pig squeal sound here<< "What? What's the matter?"
"I WANT to feed the cats."
"Okay, go ahead then."
"NOOOO!!!"
I stare in wide-eyed silence at what I can only describe as Gollum, hunched up on the floor, arguing back and forth with himself.
Except instead of arguing about whether or not he should kill Frodo and take back his Precious, he's arguing about whether or not he wants to feed the cats. Or whether or not he wants his socks on. Or whether or not he wants a hug. This type of weirdness carries on over the course of the day. It's only a matter of time before the pea soup projectile vomit starts flying. But until then, I will assume this to be normal four year old behavior.
I check the time. 7:02.
It's going to be a long weekend.
February 28, 2014
An Open Letter to the Sun
This is from the S4L archives, but it is once again that time of year. Stupid jerk face sun.
Ok look, Sun, enough with this game. Alright?
Just because you support all life on Earth and without you every terrestrial being would basically curl up and die, does that mean you have to be such a bitch during our commute? Here we are, just trying to get home to our families after slaving away at our jobs, and there you are, dead center of I-495, being nothing but a total wanker. “Oooh look at me, I use nuclear fusion to produce kinetic energy!” Big deal. I could have done that in ninth grade. Nobody’s impressed by you, Sun.
I didn’t leave work so I could get my eyeballs scorched, rear-end somebody, veer off the road, and land in a tree. And I especially didn’t leave work so I could spend the rest of my night trying to watch Project Runway with a major headache. You’re sick, man. Sick. Now traffic's gotta come to a screeching halt every time we drive around a bend because your blazing jerk rays decide to show up? Maybe you were hot stuff back at 12:00 p.m. when all the doctor’s wives and college kids were lazing around the beach basking in your holier-than-thou rays, but guess what? It’s 5:00 p.m. Get over yourself and just set already.
I don’t know, maybe I should give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that nobody’s ever told you this before. So I’m going to tell you now, as a friend. People don’t like it when other people get all up in their faces.
And they definitely don’t like it when a 9,941 degree blazing ball of turds does it while they’re trying to drive. I’m sorry, I went too far. Don’t get mad. Until I can get over to Target and pick up some Vitamin D supplements, I need you in my life. I don’t want this to get awkward.
What the…are you laughing up there? My rods and cones are at stake and you think this is some kind of joke? Look buddy, not all of us have 5 billion more years to just dick around in the sky. Why don’t you get your yellow ass down here and fight me? Let’s end this once and for all. Let’s see who the real G-type main sequence star really is.
For somebody who’s 8.31 light minutes away, you sure know how to get on my nerves.
Ok look, Sun, enough with this game. Alright?
Just because you support all life on Earth and without you every terrestrial being would basically curl up and die, does that mean you have to be such a bitch during our commute? Here we are, just trying to get home to our families after slaving away at our jobs, and there you are, dead center of I-495, being nothing but a total wanker. “Oooh look at me, I use nuclear fusion to produce kinetic energy!” Big deal. I could have done that in ninth grade. Nobody’s impressed by you, Sun.
I didn’t leave work so I could get my eyeballs scorched, rear-end somebody, veer off the road, and land in a tree. And I especially didn’t leave work so I could spend the rest of my night trying to watch Project Runway with a major headache. You’re sick, man. Sick. Now traffic's gotta come to a screeching halt every time we drive around a bend because your blazing jerk rays decide to show up? Maybe you were hot stuff back at 12:00 p.m. when all the doctor’s wives and college kids were lazing around the beach basking in your holier-than-thou rays, but guess what? It’s 5:00 p.m. Get over yourself and just set already.
I don’t know, maybe I should give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that nobody’s ever told you this before. So I’m going to tell you now, as a friend. People don’t like it when other people get all up in their faces.
And they definitely don’t like it when a 9,941 degree blazing ball of turds does it while they’re trying to drive. I’m sorry, I went too far. Don’t get mad. Until I can get over to Target and pick up some Vitamin D supplements, I need you in my life. I don’t want this to get awkward.
What the…are you laughing up there? My rods and cones are at stake and you think this is some kind of joke? Look buddy, not all of us have 5 billion more years to just dick around in the sky. Why don’t you get your yellow ass down here and fight me? Let’s end this once and for all. Let’s see who the real G-type main sequence star really is.
For somebody who’s 8.31 light minutes away, you sure know how to get on my nerves.
February 22, 2014
Lessons Learned from a Day at the Mall
I will never have so many children that my family needs to form a human chain while walking through Macy's.
If there is one thing I enjoy less than other people's children, it is other children's parents. I have a pretty strong aversion to Mom Voice:
If I am ever invited out by a pack of moms whose day will at some point include carrying around fifteen American Girl shopping bags, you guys can just go on without me.
If I ever have a 12 year old daughter, she will most definitely not wear her cheerleading half shirt in public. Especially when public includes the guy with this mustache who works at the Lego store:
If my butt ever increases tenfold, I will not wear horizontally striped stretch pants. Let's just go ahead and say that I will never wear horizontally striped stretch pants under any circumstances. That's a promise we can all feel good about.
I will not be caught dead pushing a double decker fire engine rental stroller. As if the supermarket ones weren't clunky enough, just try fitting one of these into any store other than Sears. Oh wait, that's the only store you're going into anyway.
Listen up old ladies. There are plenty of stores for older women who want to dress stylishly: Ann Taylor, Talbots, Macy's. Here are some stores you should not shop at: Wet Seal, Forever 21, BeBe, that kiosk with the hair extensions. I tell you this because I too will be an old lady someday, and I don't want to be the cause of any young man jumping out of his skin when the backside he's been checking out turns around and has my 80 year old face attached to it.
If there is one thing I enjoy less than other people's children, it is other children's parents. I have a pretty strong aversion to Mom Voice:
"Do you think that was a good choice that you made? We need to absolutely make a better choice next time."God. You know what really wasn't a good choice? Saying those fucking words. Maybe the fact that I don't have a Mom Voice is why my kid doesn't listen to half the stuff I say. Whatever. Totally worth it.
If I am ever invited out by a pack of moms whose day will at some point include carrying around fifteen American Girl shopping bags, you guys can just go on without me.
If I ever have a 12 year old daughter, she will most definitely not wear her cheerleading half shirt in public. Especially when public includes the guy with this mustache who works at the Lego store:
If my butt ever increases tenfold, I will not wear horizontally striped stretch pants. Let's just go ahead and say that I will never wear horizontally striped stretch pants under any circumstances. That's a promise we can all feel good about.
I will not be caught dead pushing a double decker fire engine rental stroller. As if the supermarket ones weren't clunky enough, just try fitting one of these into any store other than Sears. Oh wait, that's the only store you're going into anyway.
Listen up old ladies. There are plenty of stores for older women who want to dress stylishly: Ann Taylor, Talbots, Macy's. Here are some stores you should not shop at: Wet Seal, Forever 21, BeBe, that kiosk with the hair extensions. I tell you this because I too will be an old lady someday, and I don't want to be the cause of any young man jumping out of his skin when the backside he's been checking out turns around and has my 80 year old face attached to it.
