Mastering the Art of Not Getting Sunday Anxiety Syndrome Because Your Job Sucks Balls


Yes! I’ve miss you too, my internet kittens, but I’ve been getting my act together and whatnot. I’ve been soooooo super busy being blissful, I’ve forgotten how to blog. It’s not that I don’t need you, it’s just that my day is fulfilling enough for the occasional Instagram #doggo post. Just let me take off my pants and settle in my sweats….oh wait! I don’t have to! I am already in my fucking sweat pants and have been for two whole months! Every. Single. Day. Don’t hate me because I’m so comfortable.

Okay so last we left off, I was on a job hunt where I had a weird group interview for a small “startup” company where we had to describe our spirit animal and try and sell a glass of water to the hipster CEO. Scroll back one or click here because it was strange and maybe this is how the world works now so heads up.

Last year I had a couple of short term administrative office type jobs that I didn’t tell you about because it’s best to keep these things on the down low BUT! I will say that what I got out of both experiences was that working for small businesses that are run by completely insane people sucks balls. I would get Sunday night anxiety on Saturday morning, working was that bad.

One job, the boss was a woman from South Africa who would yell orders from her cell phone in the car. I’m not really used to talking on the phone with anyone since texting became a thing. I talk to my mom but I’ve known the cadence of her voice for over 50 years. I know her sighs and mumbles and can piece together the conversation (prolly about the weather) without have to say wut? all the time. This boss lady would scream into the speaker phone with her A/C and radio on and tell me to do something in her South Eeh-freekn accent and I’d be like, excuse me, what? Sorry, I can’t hear you, the phone is breaking up. And she’d screech even fucking louder and more shrill so I’d understand even less. My dentist has a South African accent and I love him so much, I would open my mouth as wide as my jaw would allow for him just to hear him tell me not to brush more softly so my gums don’t recede. He croons, she squawks, that’s the difference.

She also had one of those narcissistic personalities that I can’t resist fucking with, so I’d pile on the compliments, “Oh, I love your dress!” “Oh, I thought you were way younger!” It’s kind of like putting too much air in the balloon to watch it explode. I think this type of trolling is what the Trump administration is all about, they’re all just waiting for an orange A-bomb to erupt. For shits and giggles. Trolololol.

Anyway, I dreaded this woman but thankfully, it was a short-lived gig but the next job was longer and although less scary, the boss was clearly losing his marbles. I did his excel spreadsheets for his accountant. It wasn’t good (*whispers* I would have run away to an island somewhere if I were him and oh well about his wife and kids, they’ll survive). But! Zero fucks to the wind, he spent most of his time on the internet shopping for cows for his hobby farm. That was his porn. He was British. I feel like that explains it all. British men are all about fetishes and weird avocations. Also he mumbled. He always thought I wasn’t listening but it just took me about a four second delay to scramble his blathering into a coherent sentence. I totally would have dated him if he wasn’t married. I’m pretty sure he had a kinky side that wasn’t being fulfilled, hence the bovine obsession. By the time I finished that job I bought 8 boxes of Girl Guide chocolate mint cookies from his daughter. So it was worth it for that.

Anyway, so recap of last year: I was unlucky in jobs but lucky in bone, whatevs, but this year has been a switcheroo. Now some of you read this because you actually like my dating stories and that’s cool, I hope to have some more soon BUT! It’s been winter and it’s CUFFING SEASON y’all and I missed that boat, so once the warmer weather comes around so will my mojo, I’m sure. So hang tight. I have sweet repeat leftover from my Tinder days who, as it turns out, has a foot fetish! And he’s not an old British man! That’s something to look forward to, right? A “pedicure?” There has to be an urban dictionary explanation for that. I’m not sure what that entails or entoes lol, I’ll have to google, I’m pretty sure it’s easier than most of the other things on the menu these days. Hopefully because I’m having some dental work done later this month and I want to keep things pristine above the neckline. I’m that kind of girl.

So yeah, a couple of months ago I applied for a job with a dog walking company. It’s  2017, this is now a legit business that people thrive from because fur babies are people too. I don’t have the wherewithal to put up flyers and think of a cute pun name like Your Woof Is My Command Pet Service (that’s up for grabs now, you’re welcome). When it comes to work, I just need to show up, have someone tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. I’m efficient, prompt, and customer service orientated. I don’t take a lunch and I poop at home. The latter business was an issue with the last boss who actually moniturd (lol) how long this one dude took in the bathroom, which was a half an hour every morning from 10:30 to 11 and he would say to me: “I’m paying him to take a shit every day!” Then mumble-mumble something else with an up intonation that I was supposed to respond to, probably with a “yes, I agree with you nod” or maybe a SMH, who knows? See what I was dealing with?  Oy.

So Dog Company replied to me and I had a phone interview with one of the owners of a family run business. She and I had a great conversation. We both are obsessed with Pomeranians, she has one, and I have a half of one in the form of Betty! They have a private dog park in the neighbourhood! It’s all local! It’s basically a dog taxi service. Pick up dogs in the morning, drive to park, play with dogs for an hour, bring dogs home, and do it again in the afternoon. I WANT THIS JOB SO BAD.

I had an in-person interview for the next step. Dog Company has a dog-boarding loft kitty corner from my gym. My gym is my second home. I do not poop there but I shower and all my secrets live in my locker. This is geographical perfection. The interview goes well! I like both the owners, they are a married couple. Do you ever notice how sometimes, more often than not, marrieds are mismatched? Like you can like one but not the other, she’s sweet but he’s a dick? Or he’s funny but she’s a shrew? Or he’s quiet but he’s a control freak? Or she’s normal but she’s got issues? It’s refreshing to meet a couple who are equally cool and fun and easy to talk to AND LOVE THE DOGS.

It’s all about the love of the dogs that makes the pack leader. And so I got the job. It’s been over a month. I’m in love with my dogs. The park is like a little Utopian canine confinement near Cherry Beach where they can run and hang with others of their kind. Or mix it up. Sniff some butts. Chase balls, fight over sticks. At first I couldn’t tell some of them apart because they were the same breed. I’ve got 3 Vizslas in my morning crew and at first I had to memorize them by the colour of their collars. But now they could be roaming in silhouette and I can tell by their mannerisms which hound is which. One of my dogs is this giant intense scary looking mutt with soulful eyes. Sometimes I think he is human. Every time I look around the park he is always standing a distance away staring at me like that one dude at the gym who I hooked up with but it turned to shit and that’s another story. It’s like we were star-crossed lovers in another life. It’s hard not to anthropomorphize the dogs because they have such distinct personalities. And I’ve been bringing Betty with me. Take your dog to work has never been more appropriate, and she is loving it. She gets to throw her weight around and bark her hoarse smoky bark without being the most obnoxious asshole because there is always another dog with a more annoying voice. But to be honest, barking is music to my ears. Compared to humans on the phone.  And if the worst part of the job is picking up shit, then at least I don’t have to put up with it. Woof woof, muthahfuckas, I can’t wait til Monday.






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