Tuesday, June 5, 2007

The only time to use an elevator ...

So today, I get a call from downstairs. “You need to add another quarter to the ICJ (In Canada jar). I was getting my breakfast in the break room, and HE starts this random conversation with me.” As it was related to me, here is how it went down (CK represents the Crazy Kanuck, P represents the person he was speaking to.)

CK: Good morning, how are you?
P: Fine, yourself?
CK: Good. You know, I just don’t get it. You guys have a lot of overweight people here in the States. IN CANADA, I worked in an office where the elevator was purposefully made slow so that people would take the stairs instead. It kept us active and trim. (My note – I highly doubt that the office building would purposefully make the elevator slow. All elevators I’ve ridden on in small buildings are generally slow. Unless you’re riding the one at the Stratosphere in Vegas. That one is very fast and kind of scary if you’re drunk and the world is spinning. But I digress.) I mean, you should really just take the stairs anyway, unless you’re like, an 8 month pregnant woman and the baby is trying to shoot out between your legs.
Me: (At this point, I can imagine the look on P’s face and I’m going between giggles and shock. I mean really – the baby is shooting out between your legs? Thanks for that visual. I think I need some bleach for my brain now, thanks.)
CK: Hm, wow. Your oatmeal smells good. (At this time he ends the conversation and walks away.)

Seriously, how do you get from babies shooting out of hoo-haa’s to “wow, your oatmeal smells good”, and without even saying goodbye? I’m glad I already had my oatmeal before this conversation was related to me.

Later this same day, P goes to ask CK a question. His door is cracked, so it is not fully closed, and P knocks then walks in. As P is walking in, CK is quickly pulling his hands up from under his desk and scooting in as far in towards the desk as bodily physics allows. Hmmm, I wonder if he was “massaging the numbers”?

Now, where's that bleach?

Monday, June 4, 2007

Are all Canadians arrogant? Or just this one?

It’s just one of those days where I feel I am about to snap. Everyone wants a piece of me, and they don’t seem to understand that they aren’t the priority. Granted, most of them get it when I explain that I cannot help them now but will help them later this week, because I’m working on this one massive project. 99.9% of them nod and say they will either figure it out on their own, or that they’ll talk to me at the end of the week. I love them. But then, there’s that 0.01% who seems to think that the world revolves around him.

He feels that when he wants something we should all stop what we’re doing and revel in the wonderfulness that is him. (He has a poster sized picture of himself on his office wall. Seriously.) Telling him, “No, really. I cannot help you now. The lease for Company X is up in 2 weeks, and we’re moving them all to Location Y. I need to finish the logistics of this” doesn’t sway him in the least. Company X doesn’t fit into his worldview at the moment and doesn’t care that their deadline is more important than me making him lunch reservations. Which will no doubt change tomorrow and then the next day. And I know I’m not the only one doing this for him – he’ll ask another assistant to do the exact same thing. He says that his way of doing things is better, because he subscribes to the Kaizen mind-set. Hmmmm, if that were the case, you wouldn’t have people doing the same job twice, which is actually the job we’re paying you to do! You are a lawyer; we are assistants – why do you assume we can do the same job you can do? Maybe in Canada they give out law degrees to whoever asks for one.

His view, by the way, really only consists of Canada and why the US sucks in comparison to it. If that’s so, then why did you move your arrogant ass down here in the first place buddy? I should’ve screwed with his immigration papers while I had the chance.

And to top it off, it's not even lunch yet and I've spilled coffee in my lap. No, actually, not my lap - my crotch. Now I'm sure he'll think that, "At least in Canada, people don't pee their pants."

Sunday, June 3, 2007

Oi! 'ello there!

All right, I’ve caved. And here I am, officially blogging. Why do I have “C’mon people now, join in, start a blog-train, blog-train” running through my head?

Here's some random for you ... show your friends you love them, send ‘em some crack, http://www.virtualcrack.com/ (Wow, you really can find anything on here!)

I’ll mainly post random thoughts, weird food cravings, and rants about a particular co-worker, interspersed with the obligatory drunken post(s), along with the hopped up on coffee ones. And on that note, I have some pasta boiling and I must pee. (Coffee goes straight through me, but I wouldn’t give it up for anything, bladder be damned!)

I'm an avowed chowhound, so if you have any favorite "make me cum in my pants" pasta recipes, send them my way! I lost a dinner bet and have to make a pasta dish for an Italian. Nope, no pressure there!