e·parent (EEE PAHR’unt) n. A father or mother who monitors his or her children at daycare via a webcam. “I just saw Preston whap my son upside the head with a piece of Hot Wheels track. Meanwhile, the teacher was standing in the corner, pulling her pants out of her cooch. I hate to be an e-parent, but I am soooo calling daycare.”
Archive for August, 2005 Page 3 of 4
“I love the blackies.”
My husband’s boss to a co-worker, in reference to black licorice. My husband’s reply, “We always knew she was a size queen.”
Is there anything finer than the final two weeks of your job? Once you have given your two weeks notice and all the awkward “so I hear you’re leaving” coversations are out of the way, it’s one sweet ride. Bear with me while I pontificate.
I have made numerous trips to the supply room, rooting for goodies that I may or may not need in the next decade or two (”Clear transparency sheets. Hmmm. I could use them to create a protective covering for my home’s windows in case of a nuclear attack. I could even tape them together to make a giant slip-and-slide in my backyard.”)
No more listening for the pitter patter of boss feet traipsing down the hallway (and the resulting paranoid closing of my beloved, carpal-tunnel inducing Mah-Jong). “Maybe if I tape my wrist, I can play one more round…”
No more spastic searches for my computer’s volume, after opening an annoying sound-embedded email. No, I don’t want to hear about the angel who’s watching over me. If she was really there, she would be shielding me from your mind-numbing emails. I don’t care what my porn star name is, or if I am indeed a redneck. And no, I don’t want to give myself good luck for seven years by forwarding this to 50 of my friends. Good luck is pretty much moot when you’re being drawn and quarterd by everyone on your email list. Girlfriend, maybe I’ll start taking your advice when you relegate that Bon Jovi shirt to a burn barrel, and you remove the battallion of ribbon magnets from your precious two-door Explorer Sport. All the petroleum used to fuel that shitbox and create those ridiculous symbols of urban protest could’ve ended the war by now.
No more generic phone conversations with my husband: “Yes, I’m cutting out early today so I can swing by Target and buy more K-Y for tonight. Should I get the econo-tub this time?”
And for once, I can gleefully turn down those invitations to pyramid-scheme “parties” that prey on women’s friendships, careers and pocketbooks. Let’s get one thing straight. It’s not a party if it invovles me coming to your house and giving you money.
Soon, I will be at a new job, and my two-week honeymoon will be over. I will have to resume all paranoid behaviors that mask my rampant disregard of office time and resources. But until then, I’m in slacker heaven. Jeez. Maybe I should quit my job more often.
head·ache zit (HED’ake ziht) n. A facial blemish so deep and venomous, simply touching it results in an instant headache. Not to be confused with its equally painful cousin, the dreaded ear zit. “Dude, I’m out for the night. I accidentally brushed my headache zit when changing shirts and now I’m seeing floaters.”
My mother just called me — at work, no less — to inform me that she has gone up a bra size. She now wears a 48D. She is 5 feet tall, on her tippy toes, with hair fully-teased. Let’s all close our eyes and visualize this for a moment. Physics alone would dictate that this is a woman who, by all accounts, should not be able to stand up straight. A human Weeble-Wobble, if you will. Hold the syrup, Flo. The maternal flapjacks no longer qualify as a short-stack.