White Russians: You Too Can Make This Delicious Shit

Crossposted and originally written for http://hexchromosome.tumblr.com/
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On the surface, you would think that sippin’ on a White Russian goes great with fireplaces, Yule tidings, and about 4 feet of snow on the ground. My friends, I am here to tell you that a White Russian goes great with fucking EVERYTHING.

Winter, Summer, Spring or Fall, it’s like a damn grown-ass milkshake, all for you and your tummy-tum to absorb into your thoroughly deprived-of-Awesome digestive tract, or Magical Unicorn Land, or wherever food and drink goes after you swallow it. I prefer to think of my bloodstream and intestines as a crisp, babbling brook made out of vodka, or lush verdant fields in which French Fry Fairies frolic. But I digress.

A perfectly-crafted White Russian only involves three ingredients:

Vodka (can substitute Everclear)
Kahlua (can substitute coffee grounds mixed with sugar and more vodka)
Half & half (can substitute milk and/or dishwater for coloring - how fucking thirsty are you? Own it.)

1. Okay, drink that pre-drink bottle of wine if it makes you feel fancier.
2. Rinse out a tumbler or milk jug. Whatever.
3. Add ice. Don’t go crazy. Ice is just for looks.
4. Pour in about a finger of Kahlua. (Hint: Use Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment as a measurement for “finger.” And I’m talking the Norton Critical Edition, NOT Bantam Classics measuring. That’s for sissies.)
5. Pour in about 4 Crime and Punishments of vodka. I personally like vodka I have no chance of pronouncing correctly.
6. Add the half & half up to whatever is equivalent to a “full glass” for you. I use fat free half & half, because there’s no sense in wasting all those delicious calories on something that’s just filler. Also, if you’ve done your literary measuring correctly, you won’t need that much.
7. Swirl it around with a swizzle stick, or a pencil, or your finger.
8. Drain it into your gullet like a thirsty hobo in a desert.
9. Repeat.

I promise, you won’t be disappointed. No need to pattern yourself after Lebowski at every turn, but a shabby robe is definitely de rigueur for this amalgamation of amazement. Add a turban, and you’re good. Who gives a shit if you’re at a party or in public. Be your own person. A White Russian in the hand says nothing but “I like drinking” to everyone around you. Oh yeah, and it drips class. True Fact.

Today Totally Brought To You Courtesy of Xanax

I was pretty aggro most of the morning, which is my wont.  Then I has an epiphany:  Hey!  Maybe I should just up my own dosage. 

No, it wouldn't be the first time I've done it.  And it's not like it's an inordinate amount of Xanax that will send me careening off into the Never-Never Land of Sleep, Coma, or Shiny-Thing-Grasping.  Sometimes taking more helps, but sometimes it does not. 

It's not very often that I wake up and don't want to kill someone, so I just take my one little pill when I wake up and wait for coffee and, as a direct result, inherent betterment.  If that doesn't happen with coffee, then I am usually flipping out by 10:30 and wondering how to fix EVERY PROBLEM WHICH EXISTS IN THE WORLD or, more frequently, attempting to choke someone through my phone.  When in this maddened state, I tend to A) accuse random people of stealing my sandwich, B) accuse random people of stealing my pen, or C) accuse the Earth for continuing to turn.  Pretty amazing stuff, really, Xanax.  Their slogan should be "Xanax:  It Calms a Bitch Down."

So after taking over double what would be normal for me, I was, in fact, calmer.  Less crazified.  Less wanting to maim with a portable desk heater the next asshole that called or walked in my office.  And for that, I thank Xanax. 

Thank you, Xanax, for allowing me to keep my job. 
Thank you, Xanax, for making me aware that my sandwich is simply hidden underneath some stuff in my drawer. 
And thank you a billion, billion times over, dear Xanax, for saving me from a life of crafting shivs, bleaching the shit outta sheets for hours daily, and living in a cell whilst I go by the name "Honeypie."
Just thanks.

I Do Not Think I am Speaking Portuguese

The tasks I perform daily in my current workstation in life are really not that difficult.  Considering that I graduated with an English degree and not a "how to buy industrial equipment" degree, I would say that I've adapted quite well.  Unfortunately, while I have adapted, it seems that some who have been in this business for years have still not mastered simple tasks such as providing me with the information I need to handle whatever issue it is that they are asking me to handle. 

I realize this is common and not at all an anomaly in many workplaces and in all types of careers.  However, it boggles my mind to think that, por ejemplo, I could call, say, Verizon up and this be the content of the conversation: 

Verizon: This is Meow-Meow, may I help you?

Me:  Why yes, yes you can.  I'd like to get 500 working cell phones and I'll need them by tomorrow.

V:  Why of course.  Can you tell me what service you currently have?

Me:  No.

V:  Are you saying you do not currently have wireless service?

Me:  I don't know.

V:  Do you have a mobile phone that you are using currently?

Me:  Why yes! 

V:  Great, can you give me that phone number?

Me:  No. 

V:  We can try to move forward without that.  What is your residence zip code?

Me:  I don't know that either.

I think you get the picture. 
This seems to be the type of email communication I have every day.  Order this, get that, no I don't know where to buy it or how much it is or whether or not IT EVEN EXISTS.  So thanks for the info!  Please, allow me to try and pull this non-existent whatzit out of my ass for you, because you are super special to me and I have nothing but the entirety of my day to devote to your $1500 bill of material.  This is a multi-million dollar company, and I know every single dollar counts, but YOU ARE KIND OF TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THAT. 

My questions regarding what I need to perform my end of the deal aren't difficult - or are they?  Maybe I need to re-examine just what is essentially difficult to understand and what's not.  I promise, I'm not trying to make it harder.  I proooommmmiissse.  What I am trying to cut down on is double-flipping-off my screen every time an email lacks necessary info. 

My fingers are sore.

Workplace Restroom Etiquette: You're Doin' It Wrong

Hey there, lady with whom I work.  You are thoroughly disgusting.  Just sayin'. 

It's not your incessant humming while in the stall next to me.  It's not the endless fountain of noises that come out of your body.  It's not the fact that you want to strike up a conversation between straining. 

It's not any of that. 

It's actually ALL of it combined, because these nuggets of joy take place on a daily basis.  How do I possibly go about finding a time when you are not in the restroom?  Apparently it is impossible, as you are always there.  I am not one to criticize the situation goin' on in your bowels, as Lord knows I have my own set of issues - but I do not advertise them loudly whilst attempting to take care of business.  I wish you would kindly return the courtesy. 

But no.  That's too much to ask, evidently.  What you fail to comprehend is the simple fact that what I am asking is not completely unattainable for you. 

1) Walk in the restroom. 
2) Shut the fuck up. 
3) Do your thing quietly and respect the flush. 
4) Wash your hands, please. 
5) Get the fuck out. 

It's that easy. 

And yet, here you are today, barreling toward the restroom door WITH AN OPEN GRANOLA BAR in your hand.  You are chewing.  Which leads me to believe that you are taking it with y...oh, I'm just giving the fuck up. 

Guess What, You Work Here Too

So, uh, let me get this straight, Mr. Man who has called me twice this morning in the span of 30 minutes:

You want me to look up something that you can totally look up on your own RIGHT NOW, because I know you're using your laptop.  You just sent me an email, so you can't try to lie and say you are not using said laptop.  I can see you in my mind's eye, drinking whatever bullshit drink you drink in the morning that isn't coffee and thinking "hey, I'll call this girl because I'm a total dick and she'll be skerred of me."  Ha.  You obviously haven't met me, asshat.

Furthermore, you already sent me that email 3 days ago.  No, I'm not opening it, genius.  It only tells me more irrelevant information that you will need, not I. 

Let's put this little gem of a conversation to bed right now, you worthless, shiftless, "I-enjoy-making-others-do-my-work" bastard:  Just No.  I am not doing this thing for you.  If you haven't learned how to use the system, that is not my problem.  Here, let me tell you how real quick, it's eeeeeeeeaaasssssyyyy.

Had you actually spent the amount of time you spent dialing the phone looking up this information on your own instead, you would have a) found out said info all by your wittle self and b) not had to deal with the fact that I have no time for your lazy ass. 

Internal customers:  I am indeed friendly when you attempt.  But let me clue you in to a little idiosyncrasy of mine.  You have to actually make an effort or, you know, endure and suffer through the conversation you are about to have with me.  FYI, bee tee dubs, totes cereal.  Suck it up and makey your fingers do some workey.

Your Lack of Intelligence is Mesmerizing

Wow, are you dumb.  I've never seen anything quite like it.  Did your parents let you run through the streets sans shoes and eat nothing but mud for dinner every day?  I mean, there can only be so many explanations for the level of stupid you are.  Maybe aliens inhabit your body, and aliens are apparently way less smart than we think. If I could be any more appalled at your stupidity I would surprise myself.  You are on the same trajectory as a single-celled animal or (okay, I'll give you *some* credit) prehistoric humanoids.  This phrase hasn't been used since 1902, but EGADS.

What happens when you go out in public?  How do you interact with, say, salespeople or the guy at the oil change place?  Do they just give you a candy and pat you on the head?  How do you drive?  Do you understand that red means stop and green means go, or do you think of your car as an extension of your playhouse?  For fuck's sake, I really am mortified yet strangely drawn to the idea of following you around for an entire day.  I must see how you do it.

Surely, moving through the world behind those shiny yet completely blank eyes has to be a constant struggle for you.  I shudder to think of you negotiating anything more difficult than a fruit roll-up.  Even that could prove very time-consuming, what with the packaging and the way it sticks to itself.  At some point, a kind soul took what must have been all 32 of your previous years to teach you how to spell "lol" and to perhaps sound out the words on a Happy Meal container.  Gods bless this person, for he or she must have the patience of a Tibetan monk.  Life is a challenge for you, no doubt, as you wander aimlessly through the very tiny confines of your mind, looking for glitter, hoping for a magic talking dog to tell you all the secrets you've been dying to learn.

Oh honey, I pity you, and yet the fact that you have birthed children makes me want to strangle you in an alley, leaving nothing else to chance.