Today is Monday and I had gotten up as I do every other Monday to get ready to go to work. I take a shower, primp, quaff my hair and made sure I had everything I needed to tackle another day of work. Fate however had different plans for me today….ahh fate that fickle bitch that has a sarcastically devilish sense of humor. I got out of the shower and put on my makeup as I usually do, but today the humidity is at an unbelievable percentage for HellPaso. It took an entire forty-five minutes for my hair just to dry! As I turned around, looked into the mirror I realized I looked like Alex DeLarge from a Clockwork Orange.
Mascara wet, runny raccoon eyes that would NOT come off no matter how hard I tried to get that off! End result, I had to wash my face and start all over again.
Because of the makeup debacle I only styled my hair from the front and make a bun from the rest of it, I never use my hair up, never. So as I finally left the house, dressed, my handbag in one hand, work bag in the other, keys and my cup of coffee, the coffee fell out of my hand as I tried to lock my front door. Spilling coffee all over the outfit I had picked for today, so I went back in to change and rushed to make it to work on time. As I got to work I chose my usual parking space which is right next to the building.
Then the sunshades for my car decided to fight me on opening up. It’s those round ones that have in inner wire to hold them open and you twist to make them small. As I fought with these sunshades form hell, I yelled out loud “You will you just…..FUCK! Work with me here!” That’s when the security guard walked up to me and asked if I needed help, smirking at me as I struggled with the stupid shades, my hair already “un-buned” and loose, sweating like a goddamned pig because of this 80% humidity.
I nicely told the guard I was fine, and he walked away talking into his radio, no doubt telling all the other guards and police officers that some crazy chick was fighting with her sunshades in her car.
I walked into the office, and tried to tip-toe so that my director wouldn’t hear me because she talks a lot. About everything except work, her mom, her grandkids, her kids, her church, her car you name it she’ll find a subject to bore the fucking daylights out of you. But today, I wasn’t in the mood, I grabbed the key to unlock the office and then heard her say “Huntress is that you?” and I sighed out loud saying “fuck” and she responded with “what did you say?”
I walked over to talk to her and I said I was only cussing at my work bag because I had dropped it. For the next forty-five minutes she talked about how she’s spent the entire weekend taking care of her grandkids because her daughter in law is in the hospital.
The huntress inside me was yelling at the top of my lungs “OH GOD JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY SO I CAN GO TO MY OFFICE AND PRETEND TO WORK!!!” I swear I felt like passing out the way I did last Monday of food poisoning. That’s when she looked at me and said “Are you okay, you don’t look so good” and I told myself, yeah bitch thanks for stating the obvious…..I got up and came to my office, covered in sweat trying hard not to throw up in my trash can.
I sat down, turned on my computer, sweating profusely wanting to take a pillow and suffocate my director so no one else had to endure yet another story about her fucking private life. Then my other coworker came in, said good morning and began to clear her throat. It’s been going on for over three hours, throat clearing like the bitch is digging for fucking clams!
Then I get a faculty member that doesn’t know the difference between percentage effort and hourly pay. She comes down to my office (unannounced) and asks me right as she walks in “Are you Filipino?” I turn around as if she could possibly be talking to someone else and I look at her and ask “Are you talking to me?” She said “Yes….Filipino?” And I said “No I’m not Filipino, why do you ask?”
She said “You look like your Filipino, so sorry, so sorry.” It must be that half of my hair is hanging off the side of my head, wet with sweat, mascara running yet again, and the battle scars from the sunshade from hell, and my patience running thin. I must look like some Filipino sweatshop girl working fourteen hours at fifty cents an hour. Yes it’s a stereotype, but as Jo Koy (ironically a Filipino standup comic, who’s brilliant) says stereotypes are funny because their true. He also says that Filipinos and Mexican’s have a lot in common, especially looks and last names (scratches head trying to figure out wtf?) maybe that’s why she kept asking me, who knows.
I sat in my office trying to explain to this faculty member how percentage effort works, and after an hour she left my office and she still didn’t understand what I was telling her. I told her I’d do her budget for her asking her to just send me the numbers so I can do this without every other word out of her mouth “You sure you’re not Filipino?” I just wanted her to shut up and leave so I could go to my car and yell at the top of my lungs and punch the steering wheel until I felt better. My lunch hour came around and I decided to leave since I have been craving a Whopper from Burger King. I drove the block and a half to get to the restaurant placed my order, paid and left.
Now I’m the type of person who always checks their order before I pull away from the drive-thru, but today I thought okay this bitch fate has already taken enough punches at me today, I’m good. NOPE, I get to work and unpack my lunch and realize it’s a goddamned grilled chicken sandwich! Someone out there is eating my fucking Whopper with jalapenos and bacon and I’m stuck with a godforsaken grilled chicken sandwich!!!
I literally threw my hands on my desk and grabbed my book, phone and sunglasses to go outside to read. As I walk past the rose bush that sits right outside the entrance to the building, my hose gets stuck on it, tearing it and leaving a huge run from my knee to my ankle. Then some happy-go-lucky dude is sitting out on the lawn on his phone but has his phone on speaker playing “You’ve Got a Friend” from James Taylor.
I hate James Taylor! No really I hate James Taylor and all of his songs, I’m not one for sappy friendship songs and shit. Give me a loud, eardrum busting version of Celebrity Skin by Hole or any song by Halestorm any day and I’m happy as fuck.
But today, today I need for this day to quickly be over so I can go home and work out on my rowing machine because I have a lot of frustration going on, and then after maybe a bloody Mary. I’m not talking about the drink, I’m talking about my neighbor Mary and her asshole husband Gary, because they’ve decided to put a jumping balloon in their front yard. Yes, in their front yard for their grandkids who are on summer vacation, screaming and jumping until all hours of the night. I feel like walking straight up to her and yell “This isn’t the fucking ghetto, get your Cinderella jumping balloon out of your front yard and put in in your back yard so you and only you can enjoy the sheer happiness that are your snotty, rude grandkids!” and then punch her straight in the face!
Until next time, remember chin up, soldier on and watch your back!