That’s what Mom calls my cat when she stinks up the place. (And I don’t think she knows what a stinky binky really is.)
That’s also what I would call an employee who doesn’t smell like they bothered to wash their ass before invading my tiny space where the AC works four out of every seven days.
Blessed are those who are always congested and don’t notice.
I wonder how many people quit over being paired with Pigpens.
My friend and I were having the “why everyone hates reviews” talk recently. He just got a raise and had to go through his annual “well you’re valuable but not all that valuable” that preceded the annual “cost of living” bump. Which, seems like that could have been doled out without all the drama. But, he figures it’s a fair exchange — a few moments of discomfort for the ability to buy an extra cup of coffee each week.
It reminds me of landlords. How even though I try to solve problems, I always have someone calling to tell me that I didn’t do it the way they would have done it. Even though I used my best judgment when surrounded with a crisis that wasn’t anyone else’s emergency.
Like, my landlord not only called to bitch me out, but he had one of his Robert Palmer girls call and lecture me on not solving my own problems. (Because my professional guy cost $150 and his not-bright brother-in-law cost $60.)
That reminds me of when, at my old place, *I* was the annoying upstairs neighbor. I mean sure I didn’t drag bodies across the floor all night and bang the sliding glass doors at every available opportunity because I was running out every five minutes to smoke cigarettes and dope like Islamic Caitlyn Jenner who lives upstairs from me now. But, fire alarms.
My one-time downstairs neighbor Lauranne ran upstairs after the smoke detector in my room was going off for an hour. The batteries were out of it and it was early morning and her baby was in hysterics. She ran into my house to find me on a ladder in my jammies, beating on the thing with a hammer.
She moved out right after that. But the point of the story is that I had called maintenance for help and no one cared. So I called the fire department. That visit cost the building $1,500. Suddenly everyone cared.
Not about me or Lauranne or her baby. But I sure got a lecture on handling things myself.
And the bottom line every time is that where everyone else wasn’t available, I did my thing. And I have a very hard time apologizing for having a working toilet or ending the very loud ringing in my ears that you could hear from six floors below. (And six feet under. Those were a BITCH.)
In any event, this is why I have phone anxiety. It’s why I have review anxiety. It’s why I have nothing but ANXIETY. I mean, it’s one thing if I were a total and complete moron trying to fumble my way through the world. But I’m educated and have a high IQ and I think I’m pretty OK when it comes to decision-making because I at least think out all the consequences.
Yet, in a world where other people get the last say on whether it’s “good enough,” I’d rather move to an island and crack coconuts with my thighs (because, I can) and never hear the thoughts of another living soul again.