Work, Work, Work

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I used to have a 'real' job.  Lots of them, actually.  Well, not soooo many jobs that I'm one of THOSE people.  You know who I'm talking about.  You have a conversation with a co-worker that goes something like this:

"Hey chiquita!  How was your weekend?  I went to scrapbook club on Friday night, and hung out with Carol, my doctor friend, and another gal whose husband is a firefighter....."

And then one of THOSE people lurks in from NOWHERE and says, "I USED TO BE a firefighter!"

Really?  I mean, REALLY?  Are you SURE?  Because, darling, I just don't think you were.  Not only are you about 12 pounds soaking wet, but for a man, you just have the world's prettiest shoes!  And not only were you unable to make one lap around the softball field without vomiting, you also happen to be 22 years old, and fresh out of college, so WHEN were you a firefighter exactly?  Or are you calling yourself a firefighter because you hosed down a campfire one time at band camp?  I pretty much have heard every story you have ever told at work, and no, none of them have ever involved fire or fire safety or the climbing of ladders or manlifts or dalmations for that matter. 


Or, my ALL-TIME favorite one:

"Hey Bryan!  Congratulations on graduating with your MBA last weekend!  I know how hard you worked for that, and your family sacrificed while you studied and worked and tried to be a dad the whole time, so way to go with that MBA!"

And one of THOSE people remarks, with his thumbs in his beltloops, bouncing on the heels of his workboots, like Rumpstiltskin, just itching to propose to spin more straw into gold in exchange for a royal firstborn:

"You got an MBA?  I got an MBA."

No you don't, Stiltskin.  Really, you don't.  Everybody knows you don't.  Everybody knows you can't even spell M-B-A.  And, because you're the type of person, who, if a woman said, "my Fallopian tubes are cramping my style just a bit today," you would then jump in to say, "Yeah, I had that problem last week myself, and I had to call the plumber to come over to our bathroom and snake them out.  And now the toilets are flushing much better.  You want his number?"

Okay, so now you get the picture.

I've had jobs, and I've worked with bunches of people.  I just did a quick calculation, and I had 3 jobs in the last sixteen years.  That was a pretty good run.  It was much better than the 16 jobs in the three years prior to that, but does anyone count their first job ever?  The one at McDonalds?  You remember.  Every night you could PEEL an entire layer of French fry grease from your face.  And the acne it left behind was a zit-a-thon like none you had ever seen before.  In fact, the acne got so bad, that even though you were making soooooo much money ($87.00 a week!), you had to quit before the volcanic pus turned to crusty, dime-sized craters.

So in the past 16 years, I worked for the Stucco Man, the Plant People, and the Devil.

In that order.

And now?

Well, now, I don't do much of anything, 'cept listen to the rambling rantings of a living and breathing poop factory.

And I've never been so exhausted in all of my life.

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