My Boss and Her Dog Phuck

Let me start off by saying that my boss is a cat person. We’ve been through three of them since I started working with her 5 years ago.  We’re currently on her fourth.  I’m pissed about this because she had always told me that the only thing keeping her in Canada was her shitty cats.  When they were gone, she was going to be leaving and moving back to England.  I would get a sick surge of hope every time a cat died.  When we were one cat away from her reason for remaining in Canada, she went and adopted a fourth.  The third cat kicked it about a month later.  Sometimes I hate my life.

Here’s why.  My boss sucks.  Her days at “work” consist of any combination of the following:

  • reading the newspaper
  • twittering
  • badmouthing anyone and everyone
  • commenting on the state of affairs in jolly old England
  • scheming how to be uncooperative
  • printing address labels using the special function on the printer that she has never figured out and after half a day abandons her efforts and asks her assistant to do it
  • creating a pie chart and printing it out in every colour of the spectrum to see what she likes best
  • popping into offices and making weird, contorted facial expressions and awkward body movements to accompany her gossip
  • piling work on others and riding on their accomplishments
  • doodley-doing (her word, not mine – possibly of Olde English origin)
  • asking for bereavement leave each time a cat dies

This brings me to the dog.  You know, the one she fucks every day?

She flits (again, her word, not mine) around and I suppose in her mind this makes her busy, or appear busy.  Sometimes it backfires and people will comment to me, in the form of a question, that they saw my boss several times in one day around their end of the office, far from the desk that should contain her.  I give them the raised eyebrow, half-smile look, and shrug.  What I really want to do is introduce them to her dog, straddle the air in front of me with two hands and start humping it.  Alas, I’m afraid comments would start to circulate about me.

My boss is close to retirement.  She has indicated that she will be leaving in the spring of the coming year, cat or no cat.  This is all good and well, except for the fact that she has been in what I would term “retirement mode” for the past 5 years.  True, since the summer she has indeed ramped up withdrawal from her responsibilities to warp speed.  She seems to have endless vacation and lieu days crawling out of her ass.  This timing of this windfall closely corresponds with the hiring of a new payroll administrator.  And don’t even get me started on sick days.  For the cat, I mean.

It’s not that I don’t get my boss’ mentality.  Why would she give a crap?  It’s not as if she’s building that resume and looking for her next career opportunity.  Her next profession is crazy, apartment dwelling, cat lady anyway.  She’s already got the qualifications.  I don’t even tout the 9-5 office life and plan to ditch it way before I’m at retirement age, but that’s another blog entry altogether.

My real beef, aside from her drawing a generous salary to (not) coordinate a program, is that she treats me like I’m an idiot.   When she attempts to commiserate with me and describe the vast amount of work she’s doing it makes me crazy.  I want to sit her down and tell her to screw off all she feels she must, but don’t come into my office and pretend that something other than her fucking the dog is going on, and that I’m too stupid to figure it out.  Okay, upper management is too stupid to figure it out, but my office is right beside the doghouse and all the droppings land on my doorstep.

One day soon, but not soon enough, I envision my boss leaving for good and her woeful, used up dog trailing behind her.  As soon as that dog steps into her apartment, the last-standing cat is going to beat the crap out of it.  I’ll be at the office, bitterly cleaning up the 5 year mess she left behind.

 

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Pair Of Dice By The Dashboard Light

So it ain’t pretty.  It’s a 2001 blue Ford Focus.  It’s got rust starting to snake its way up the sides, black streaks of unknown origin permanently stuck along the front bumper, and broken hubcaps in desperate need of replacement.  This is what I drive around the affluent neighbourhood full of BMW’s and Lexus’ that I happen to reside in.

How did this poor city girl end up with these wheels?  Parents.  More specifically, my mom.  My dad has his own grey, Ford Tempo.  That’s right.  This middle ager isn’t too proud to take hand-me-downs from a couple of conservatives.  I sometimes fantasize that my mom and dad have more elaborate taste, but alas, reality stares me in the face pretty much every day.  I think I almost could have learned to love this car, but there are critics everywhere, starting right here at home with my very own children.

Whenever one of their friend’s is about to get into the car for a lift, the girls will alert them that our car smells.  Every time.  I don’t smell it.  Honestly, I don’t.  The kids, on the other hand, insist that it stinks.  They immediately crack the windows. I’m not talking press a button with one finger and watch the window glide down type of cracking.  I’m talking full-fisted, grab that arm and roll down the window type of cracking.  Yes, the 1960’s feature choice made by my parents in the year 2001 when they purchased the car, new.

On the bright side, as far as I can tell, the guests don’t focus on any alleged stench.  They’re too busy gaping while their hands fumble madly against the door as if they’ve suddenly lost the gift of sight.  “How do you open your windows?” they manage to spit out.  My kids glumly explain, “It’s not electronic.  You have to use the handle.”  For good measure they like to add “Right, Mom?” just in case their friends weren’t clear about who’s responsible for the pit of shame they must exist in.

I’m quick to remind them that cranking a window open and closed is good exercise, and that if the car ever loses power we will continue to have the luxury of being able to open and close our windows at will.  At this point, I’m able to ignore the eye roll response altogether.

And you know, the window mechanism has held up.  Given that the air conditioning is broken and has been ever since my parents presented me with the Ford, operational windows have been key to survival during hot Ontario summers.  My mom has twice recounted to me the day she ran over a sharp piece of road debris on the highway and the A/C cut out, never to be repaired.  And this was when the Ford was just a young thing.  That’s probably around the time she began to shred each, individual hubcap by what I can only assume is due to a severe lack of parallel parking capability.

The old Focus just keep on going though.  On longer trips my boyfriend likes to toy with the radio.  He seems to think if he keeps at it the sound will magically improve.  Until that happens (never), I’m quite certain he’ll continue to bitch about the poor sound quality and talk nasty to the CD player that sits in the dash, taunting him with the inaccurate ‘no CD’ message (another quirk inherited from my mother) whenever he gets up the courage to ram a disk in to see if the device has become unbroken overnight.

It’s often at this point that I mention a new vehicle would have a far superior and fully operational sound system.  He hits eject, mumbles profanities and turns up the radio.  In my head I’m having a cerebral tantrum.  I’m 43!  Aren’t I supposed to be in a nice vehicle?  Aren’t I supposed to be with a guy that has a nice vehicle.  Check that.  That HAS a vehicle?

Yes, I can easily start to go down that road of self-pity.  I can use the aging car and lack of a shiny new one to represent all of the frustrations I have about my life.  Then, I recognize that this stinky, roll down window, hubcap busted, hot, rusty, crappy radio car has been a reliable beast and taken us to many a destination, allowing us to create some fond memories as a result.  Recently, just to show its tenacity, this baby has sprung a leak in a radiator hose.  No need for the $400 fix.  I’m convinced it can take it.  It’s all good.  Life’s good.  I’m gonna gamble, toss those dice, ride it out, just like my mom would.

Oh God, I’ve become my mother.