Don't touch my shit!

As delighted as I am to get extra help in the office, and have positions that have been empty for a bajillion years finally filled - there is that period of time that it takes to "break in" a new person.  I personally believe that when you are the FNG ("fuckin' new guy" - to borrow a military term), you come in, you observe, and you do not disrupt the status quo until you are absolutely certain it's okay to do so.  The period of time that entails will vary from place to place.  That is what I like to call "FNG Etiquette."

When you violate FNG Etiquette, feathers are gonna get ruffled.  Especially MINE.  

Okay, so we have had a few new people start at the job recently.  Most of them have been quite mindful of FNG Etiquette.  One person, not so much.  Here's what happened:

This FNG decided to "rearrange" the coffee area of our front office.  The clean up part wasn't such a big deal - it needs to be done every once in a while (not that it gets completely filthy - but it can stand to get straightened up now and then). 

This isn't my mug, but it's a cute purple mug

Side story (which is completely germane to this tale):  I drink coffee out of a big purple hard plastic mug with the name of a psychiatric med on it (no free advertising here, but it's an antipsychotic medication).  I like it because it's huge, and it's been dropped about 10,027 times and is still completely intact.  I have been drinking coffee out of this cup every work day for about the last 6 1/2 years.  Every. Fucking. Day.  That is a lot of fucking days of drinking coffee.  Everyone knows it is my cup.  Everyone sees me drink coffee from it every fucking work day I am in that office.  I drink exactly two cups of coffee, with a shit ton of creamer.  That's it.  Every day.  My purple mug.  (Are y'all following the neurotic "don't-fuck-with-my-morning-coffee-routine" theme I have going on here?)

So, back to my story:  This FNG decides to clean up and rearrange the coffee area.  The FNG takes MY PURPLE COFFEE MUG and puts the coffee accoutrements in it - meaning, the extra packets of sugar and sweet and low, the plastic knives people use as stirrers, and some dumb tea bags that nobody has ever used, but which manage to stay parked in the coffee area.  IN. MY. MUG.  Like it was just some kind of fucking coffee accoutrement receptacle.  Cue the aforementioned neurotic theme I just told you about...and my head is SPINNING off its axis.  I walk into the front office, look to the left and see the coffee area - with my big purple mug sitting next to the coffee maker, filled with coffee condiments and accessories.  My eyes nearly bug out of my head.  OH HELL TO THE MOTHER FUCKING NO!  The other two staff members up front (who know full well about my attachment to my purple cup) can barely contain their giggles when they see me eyeballing my misappropriated purple mug.

I scurry over to the coffee area and quickly dump out the coffee accoutrements from my big purple mug.  FNG sees this and comments uncomfortably, "Oh, the styrofoam cup y'all had the sugars in has seen better days (nervous giggle)."  I don't even look at FNG and just say as tersely as I can, "This is my cup."  I do believe the tone of my voice and the quickness with which I dumped out the coffee accessories to reclaim my purple mug's status as a coffee receptacle clearly indicated the extreme violation of FNG Etiquette.

You should also know that I am an only child.  My shit is my shit.  I did not have to share shit when I was growing up.  I had my own room all of the time.  I didn't inherit hand-me-downs.  Yes, I was a bit spoiled, and yes, that has spilled over somewhat into my adulthood.  I can admit it.  Am I a bit of a territorial bitch when it comes to my shit?  Hell yeah, I am.  Will I share my shit in a heartbeat if I deem a person worthy?  Fuck yeah, I will.  Do FNG's get a pass because they're FNG's when it comes to touching my shit?  HELL NO, they don't!  So, the lesson here for everyone, especially if you're the FNG in a new place:  Observe FNG Etiquette.  Don't touch people's shit.  Or, at least wait until you're no longer the FNG. 

Hissy Fit 101

For those of you who aren't "in the know" about me...I'm a first class, Grade A, world champion, professional tantrum-thrower.  When I throw a tantrum, shit gets real, and shit starts to happen.  I usually throw an "official" tantrum when I really need results.  The other day was one of those days.  I had to get my bitch on at work in an e-mail.  Most of you know that I pretty much live for that shit.  Nothing is more fun than a well-crafted "you'll-be-shitting-your-pants-because-I'm-so-evil-but-nothing-I-say-can-be-misconstrued-as-inappropriate-making-you hate-me-even-more" kind of e-mail.  

So here is what happened, in a nutshell:  I've been "warring" with the housekeeping department at work for close to two years now.  They slack on vacuuming and taking the trash out and dusting and all sorts of other shit.  I've been emailing their supervisor for the last two years.  Usually when I do say something, the housekeeping staff that works at night will clean shit for about a week and then go back to their lazy slacking ways.  It's really fucking aggravating.  But last week took the cake.  The floors in my docs' offices were looking so funky that there was shit all over the carpets and one of the patients took notice and brought it to my attention.  The poor little dude offered to COME IN AND CLEAN HIS DOCTOR'S OFFICE HIMSELF!  One of our veterans (whom we are supposed to be serving) actually felt bad for his doctor and offered to come in after hours to clean the office himself.  That. Is. Fucked. Up.

Of course, that is so beyond embarrassing for a patient to say about an office in my clinic; but this is something that's a little beyond my control, because unless I bring in my own vacuum cleaner, I'm shit out of luck to keep the shitty carpet looking a little less shitty.  I have, however, on occasion, tracked down one of the day shift housekeepers and asked him or her to drag the vacuum cleaner out of their closet so that we could borrow it in our clinic to vacuum.  THAT is ridiculous, since folks actually get paid to clean our clinic and the whole fucking hospital.

So, you know that I was just a bit tipped over when that happened, and I had to send an UBER SHITTY e-mail to the housekeeping supervisor.  I sent my e-mail, which was very professional, but so blatantly bitchy (as I cited the six different dates when I e-mailed this same person since 2012) that I could hear eyes rolling as people read it.  That e-mail was oozing with snotty bitch-hole evil.  I giggled as I hit "send."  Yes, I sent that bitch to everyone and their brother and let it be known that I had a veteran offering to come clean his doctor's office because it was filled with spider webs, spider sacs and shit all over the carpet.  Yes.  It was THAT bad.  I included my boss.  I

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included my boss's boss.  And wouldn't you know, within ten minutes of that e-mail going out, the chief of the housekeeping department was calling me asking me if he could meet with me that afternoon.   Heh.  Heh.  Heh.  So, he came by with the supervisor of the night shift and the pest control guy and er'rybody was fumbling all over their nutsacks to figure out how on earth the offices weren't getting properly cleaned.

Needless to say, my hissy fit via e-mail produced the desired results.  Sometimes, you just have to get professional psycho on some bitches when nothing else works.  But, I would caution against doing the whole "evil e-mail" thing without following a few key pointers:


1.  Proofread, proofread, proofread!  If you want to be heard, you'd damn sure better use proper grammar, punctuation, and spelling.  The fastest way to get your e-mail just scanned, skipped or discarded is to allow it to be filled with grammar "gross errors."  You look stupid, lazy and careless.  Who the hell wants to help you with shit when you don't even care enough to proofread? 

2.  Be brief.  I struggle with this one because I'm one of the wordiest bitches around.  When I write out my snotty e-mail, I let myself have my verbal diarrhea for the first draft - and that's only because I need to get the shit off of my chest.  Kinda like a therapeutic catharsis of sorts.  After the first draft, I go back and cut out the wordy shit or condense things where I can.  I also go back again and put bullets or numbers in to make it look all organized and shit.

3.  Throw in a few hundred dollar words - but not too many!  You throw in one or two words that bitches have to look up, and that makes you look smart.  You throw in more than that, and all you look like is a pompous asshole.  One of my favorite phrases to end an e-mail is, "The aforementioned is offered for your edification."  Boom!  Looks all legal-like and shit, which usually makes people get a little squirrelly. 

4.  Throw in figures, dates, and any other "stats" when you can.  And then offer to provide said stats to them upon request.  THAT pisses people off to no end - when they know you have facts to back your shit up, but you were kind enough not to embarrass them by publishing the whole article or cutting and pasting the whole e-mail in the current message.  And then you pull out the, "I'd be happy to provide you with those articles/e-mails/spreadsheets if you need to refer to them" line - hahahaha - that shit is GOLDEN right there.  *Key note:  do NOT make your facts and figures up.  Make sure they're real.  If you make that shit up, you deserve to have it blow up in your face.  Trust me - I have called out one too many a fucker on their made up shit and they have looked so ridiculously stupid that nobody would ever loan them a minute of their time to hear anything else they had to say.

5.  Name dropping:  IT WORKS.  I don't mean name-dropping like you know Taylor Swift's cousin's housekeeper's next door neighbor.  Who gives a shit??  No, I mean like - you straight up refer to the fact that shit has gotten so fucking serious (hence your tantrum) that not only are you letting your boss know, you're letting your boss's boss know.  And then you cc: them on the e-mail.  DO NOT FUCK WITH THE CHAIN OF COMMAND.  If you want the top dog to hear your hissy fit, you'd better make damned sure that each of the 27 middle-managers between you and the top dog hear your hissy fit too.  Fucking with the chain of command blows up in your face.  I highly recommend against it.  You piss off ONE person in that group of 27 middle-managers, and they can fuck your shit up for future tantrums that you might need to throw.

Follow those simple rules and RANT your ass off (with "controlled aggression") in your e-mail, and you, too, shall yield the results that you desire.  In other words:  throw a tantrum to get your way.  Usually, you get what you want because they just don't want to hear your ass anymore.  Works for me.

Awwww Curses!!

Curses!  Not like the Snidely Whiplash, "Curses! Foiled again!"  But, real life mother fucking curse words.  Cussing.  Swearing.  Using foul language.  Bad words.  Bad??  Says WHO?  Not me.  I cuss like a sailor.  I grew up listening to every last swear word that was ever uttered spewed in my house like water from a fire hydrant.  And you know what?  I never swore when I was a kid - because I fucking KNEW BETTER.  Now, of course, I swore with my girlfriends when I was in high school, because you have to talk shit about who is a "bitch" and who is a "dickhead."  But never in front of my parents, because it was just understood, swearing was reserved for adults.  And once I became an "adult," I was allowed to swear when I talked with my parents.  Now, mind you - there is a HUGE fucking difference between swearing WITH your parents and swearing AT your parents.  I don't think twice (or even once, really) about dropping the F-bomb in my parents' presence.  How you hear me speak in real life or on this blog is exactly how I speak with my parents.  They don't care because they swear just as much as I do. 

Here is a sample conversation if I drop by their crib after work and something dumb happened that day:

Me:  You will never fucking believe what happened today!  That dickhead went and lied about that project being done.  I had to pick up the fucking slack and help get it finished because of the suspense date.
My mom:  What the fuck is his problem?
Me:  I have NO fucking idea.
My dad:  Man, that's some fucking bullshit.
Me:  I hate that fucker!

You see how this is a "back and forth" or "give and take" kind of fucking conversation, right?  I'd never dream of looking at either of my parents and just out right saying, "Fuck you."  Oh HELL NO!  All hell would break loose because I would have violated "swearing etiquette."  Yes, that's right:  Swearing Etiquette.  Swearing etiquette basically dictates that you may use any cuss word on the planet in the context of having a conversation WITH someone - you can tell stories, talk about people, or just use swear words for added "effect." 

Once you start directing your cuss words AT the other person, shit takes a wayyyyyy different turn.  "Fuck you, you asshole.  You're a son of a bitch and you're full of shit."  That right there?  That is off limits, unless you are specifically intending to cuss that person out.  In that case, there are no rules, you hit below the belt, and basically let your evil fly like the wind.  I'm sure it's no surprise to anyone that I have engaged in this type of cuss-fest.  I usually win in a contest like this.  Yes, my ability to turn words into daggers via cursing is unparalleled.  (Not something I'm proud of, just a statement of fact.)  As a matter of fact, I just had one of these kinds of conversations last week.  Those are "last resort" kinds of conversations.  Maybe I'll tell you that story later.

Now, the reason I am writing this post about cussing today is because a certain 9-year old hooligan who lived inside of my body for 9 months told me today (after I yelled, "Jackass!" to the car in front of me who was committing some ridiculous driving infraction) that I needed to watch my mouth.  Of course, you know damned well, I looked in the rear view mirror just to make sure that little dude was actually speaking to me.  I had just picked him up from his dad's and we were on our way home.  Here's how that conversation went:

Me:  What'd you just say?
Him:  You should really watch your mouth.  My dad watches his mouth.  You should try to be more like him. [*side note:  at that point I nearly swerved off of the road roaring with laughter -or- was it blinding anger that anyone in their right mind would EVER tell me that I needed to be more like the ex?]
Me:  Well, here's what I think about that:  1.  You've already heard those words.  2.  You've already heard those words out of MY mouth.  3.  You already know that you're not allowed to say any of those words until you're 18, so what's the big deal?
Him:  I guess you have a point.

*End of Conversation*

Now, here's my fucking disclaimer, lest you think I'm the worst mom on earth (which I wouldn't really care about anyway, because I know some moms who suck worse than me):  I do not just randomly drop f-bombs in front of the hooligan.  If one flies out, it's usually some kind of situation where I am either in severe pain from stubbing my toe on something or I'm extremely pissed because I just dropped a huge container of rice all over the floor.  Both of those situations would likely elicit a very loud "FUCK!!"  I also don't swear in front of OPK (other people's kids).  I get it - not everyone is a fan of cussing, and it's just not their thing.  So, I DO watch my mouth in front of OPK.  Actually, if I respect someone, and I know it's not their thing, I will curb my use of the foul language around them (but invariably, something will fly out of my mouth, because I'm me).   And bear in mind that I'm not a no-brained dimwit who doesn't care about where I choose to let loose with my "inner sailor."  I know when NOT to cuss - and that is one of the key reasons I manage to stay employed.

I have no concern whatsoever that my kid will be fine growing up hearing me cuss.  He's smart like me - he just knows better than to use swear words until he's 18.