23 August 2011

Post #38

As most of you know (or goddamn should if you follow me) I was in a small fender bender a few weeks ago.  I was in a rental vehicle as my car was in the shop.  The fact that it was being repaired for a similar accident should be null and void, and it is...because I said so.  Moving on.  The lady at Circle K who came into contact with me assumed that my silence was an allusive "declaration" of my fault.  Wrong bitch.  I kept my mouth shut because I knew how this story would end.  I would be responsible for my damage and she would be for her own.  I filed a claim with my insurance company.  Fast forward three weeks later...

My phone jing-a-lings.  Not a number I recognize, but I answer.  Took me about twenty seconds to realize what was going on as the psycho twat starting spewing crap the moment I picked up.  She explained that she was going to call the cops and have them issue me a citation for not having proof of insurance at the scene of the crime, she was also going to promptly take me to small claims court.  It took me another four seconds before I hung up on her without saying a word.

What happened during the 30 seconds (1/2 a minute to be dramatic about it) following call: I got a chance to explain to my dad what just happened on the phone.  He expressed the desire to answer if she called back.  She did, and he did.

What happened during the next 24 seconds:  My dad answered, listened, and then gave his input. "Go ahead and call the FUCKING cops!"

Point of this story?  My dad and I have the exact same asshole tolerance level.

Couldn't even get through the better half of a minute.
I realize now this is probably the swiftness in which men  block out
a nagging girlfriend. 

Bumper to Bumper,

Katie E. Eshelman

22 August 2011

Post #37

Monday, Fun Day.  

Alright, here goes.  Asshole consumers have pushed me to the edge.  I am referring to those customers who, even in this depression, I want to pay to walk out of my store.  The folks who manage to weasel their way into buying from me, then promptly make me want to chug from the box of Franzia in my office's break room.  I have officially adopted a policy.  I can reject any customer who has ever registered for Angie's List or called and/or filed a formal complaint with the BBB.  I would like to turn the tables and be able to qualify you as a customer.  I want to see your credentials.  Maybe I'll launch a site. www.isthiscustomeraprick.com.  However, it will be free.  As a business you have to pay to be a part of both Angie's List and the BBB.  Ken from the BBB finally gave up asking me for my bank account number and first born child after a year and a half.  Angie still chooses to be passive-aggressive by opting to send emails...every, goddamn day.  My spam container runneth over.

Example of the day: If I tell you my crew will be at your residence between eight and ten?  They will be.  Don't call me at 8:16 AM and angrily ask where we are and why we are late.  Instead do me a favor.  Turn on "One Life to Live", consider the irony...then deep throat the hostile-laced, going to your straight to your thighs, doughnut in front of you.  

A customer is right when they pay.


Katie E. Eshelman

Photographic Update:  

That's right Ken, I never returned these.  I never will. 

Break Room aka AZFC Bar and Microwave.  That
radio from the 1900's rocks out all day, every day.

14 August 2011

Post #36

Aftermath of Sweat Lodge 2011:

2:31 AM: About to sneak into my parent's house for more beer.  Best idea ever!

4:00 AM:  Blasting tunes and belting it out with my sister, we sound amazing!  Why have we not pursued this talent?

10:51 AM:  Ouch.  I mean holy hell kind of ouch. Why did I feel the need to close out the night with tequila shots, beer pilfered from my unknowing parents, and a lot of singing?  To answer your question it's because I am awesome and by awesome I mean fucking stupid.

12:00 PM:  Finally getting my first food of the day at a Goldman's Deli.  I had Eggs Benedict, it was delicious.

3:22 PM:  Eggs Benedict and hangovers don't mix.  Shit.

4:38 PM:  Just had my monthly dose of sodium thanks to the Top Ramen I overcooked but still ate.

5:02 PM:  Pretty sure the burp that just came out of me wasn't human.  I am confident that nothing I eat or drink today, aside from the cold glass of water and cold glass of beer next to me, are going to sit well.

7:00 PM:  Hair of the dog and a shitload of water has worked, I went ahead and stopped writing my obituary.  Now the only thing that hurts is my bank account.

Can't wait for Sweat Lodge 2012!  Pretty much the only time I will ever mix beer, tequila, 190 octanes, and sake bombs again.  


Katie E. Eshelman

UPDATE (15 AUG 2011):  Add wine to the list.  

03 August 2011

Post #35

I am officially an adult on paper. 
However, I'll be a kid at heart till the day I die. 

Adult: I purchased life insurance.
Kid: Did you know you have to have a f-ing "doctor" ordered physical for that shit?  You do. It started out nice enough...blood pressure and pulse.  Then it went down a jungle-gym slide.  I went ahead and giggled when the "nurse" asked me to take a piss test.  When she told me I would have to pour said test into two tiny tubes? Well, I asked for a funnel...she was not amused.  I also insisted I take off my flip flops to get weighed...just to annoy her a bit, it made a difference dammit!  Blood test?  I made her test both arms for the best vein, then told her not to miss.  This resulted in a frown and what I believe to be an over sized, blood sucking needle.  The whole examination felt like a damn DUI test.  I am confident I aced it.

I'm a grown up: I have car insurance.
I'm a child:  Apparently, going to use it and abuse it.  Rental car damage is the shits...especially when your own wheels are in the shop for the same damage rendered.

Over the hill:  I drink Spicy V-8 "One Whole Serving of Daily Vegetables".  I care about the food pyramid.
At the bottom of a hill partying...unable to climb:  The five out of the six cans consumed?  I go ahead and add my own ingredients: salt, pepper, Louisiana hot sauce, Tabasco, Worcestershire, and Vodka.

I have a career: My work title is Operations Management Specialist.
I have a job: My prestigious position as, Manager of Bitch Work, allowed me to design my own business cards.  Therefore, I could not be usurped when naming myself as such.  

I don't answer my cell phone.  

I'm rubber and you're glue,

Katie E. Eshelman

UPDATE (15 AUG 2011):  Never drink the night before a blood test.  Oops.