Tag Archives: getting fired

A Portrait of a Sad Clown

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I know, Rob Ford…it’s not exactly fresh hell, more like “what else is new” kind of hell, but something has got to give with this spectacular fat fuck of a hot mess, like a coronary artery bursting firework display, you would think. But no, he keeps going, wheezing, sweating, snorting, squealing, urinating, text-messing, fake apologizing…. tralalala, he goes on and on, and gets to keep his job for smoking crack AND WHATNOT, but little old me gets fired from a dusty box store for writing a salty blog that my Polish mother reads, by the way, and laughs. And well, well, well, look what happened to me: a blood vessel burst in my left eye. Okay yes, I enhanced it a wee bit using a crude photoshop technique because a lady needs a filter for the baggy eyes and ruddy tear ducts but I assure you, I look like prize-fighter, holy stress balls.

And don’t get in my grill about me picking on fat people. Ford’s fatness is not the satiated corpulence of a man who enjoys mama’s good eats, I hope to marry a dude like that some day. Ford’s fatness is not jolly, his inflamed physique is the manifestation of his giant assed ego ready to explode its venom. At least that is what we judgey-wudgey citizens of Toronto project upon him.

I don’t spend as much time thinking about Rob Ford the way y’all do. I am thoroughly enjoying the pageantry of buffoonery. Nary a “tsk tsk” has crossed my lips. In all of it, I see his humanity AND! believe it or not, I think his blatant display of fuckery is healthy. At least you can see it! Most of these types in high places keep it more under control but they are equally as guilty of everything he does, if not more. Trust me, I’ve seen an underbelly far worse than Rob Ford’s and insidious evil is the most despicable in my opinion. Is he a sociopath? Or is his fatness the indicator that he eats his feelings, ergo he is human after all? Aren’t we all human? Or are some more human than others? One thing I will say: Rob Ford, crackass, jackass, drunkard, is still a better mayor than David Miller, just saying. Suck on that.

Will Toronto survive this? Yes,definitely. (That was me shaking the 8-Ball app from my i-Phone, I am an addict, that is a post for later) I wish you’d all just come to the dark side with me, kittens, and enjoy the spectacle.

Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala

So it’s been a full week since I got fired from the dust bin. I’ve had the weirdest cocktail of emotions over it. Not what I expected. I am most profoundly sad, but not the kind of sad that makes you want to crawl under covers and eat ice cream. I’m having a hard time eating at all, although me and Rob Ford would make great drinking buddies. The dank air of mirthlessness that hangs in my house (some other stuff of sadz going on) makes me want to get out and shake shit up. So I’ve been going to my gym like twice a day. Get this, I pretend I’m back at work and I go on the stairs that don’t end (I’m up to 20 minutes which is brutal)  and then I go in the iron room and pretend the dudes in there aren’t gay and I smile at them (gotta keep the mojo up) and then I lift 45 pound dumbbells from one side of the room to the next to simulate the haul of 5-gallon pails of paint. I slap my legs with 20 pound weights so that I maintain the bruise pattern on my outer thighs from walking down an aisle with two gallons in each hand. Then I throw little pieces of paper along the ballet barre and I bend over and pick them like they are paint chips that savage customers throw around willy nilly. This is a genius work out, you should try it instead of that elliptical you are so crazy about but is dumber than a side salad with a bacon cheeseburger. The whole thing is under an hour but simulates an 8 hour work day minus all the Fishermen’s Friend I used to suck on, I now think that was a metabolic booster so I’m going to take that up again. This morning I took a restorative yoga class, though, because everyone needs some gentleness and tonight is Dance Party! where a gay man will teach me to finally twerk proper.

On the second day after being fired, and after crying randomly in the steam room, that blood vessel popped in my left eye. This happened to me before, the last time I was profoundly sad, when I was blubbering over a dude who dumped me a few years back. It actually happened when I was in real estate school, taking some crazy advanced math class and I was so engrossed in solving some loan to value ratio that a little pop-sound went off in my head, I thought it my brain having an aha! moment, because I had just come up with the correct solution. But no, it was just a popped vessel and I didn’t know that the white of my right eye that had just turned a sinister shade of crimson. I went up to the teacher, a cute Armenian man named Norair, to show him my genius but instead of giving me a gold star, he was all like :”WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?” when he looked at my face. I was so scared, I started shaking, I thought I had done something really stupid. Even if I seem like a badass rebel, I am not. I was not raised by wolves, which might be what you have thought all this time if you have been reading this blog. I was actually taught to respect shit and at that moment I thought my teacher who I had a slight crush on because that is how I roll, was admonishing me. But he wasn’t, he thought I had an aneurysm or something serious and took me to the washroom where he showed me my eye. And I was like “oh wow, freaky! But I feel fine…” and his hands were resting on my shoulders and as I turned around and he kissed me, his lips at first softly grazing mine, tickling me with his Armenian five o’clock shadow at ten in the morning, and then he tongue plunged deep in my mouth, our tongues probing, our bodies pressed together like a tightly wrapped shwarma…okay I made the kiss part up. I AM A WRITER, FUCK YOU! He did insist I go to a walk-in clinic in a strip mall down the street where they were all like, it’s really nothing to worry about, go back to class.

Anyway, everyone has that one person that took your heart and broke it and then maybe shat on it a little bit before flushing it down the toilet. You have to claim responsibility of that toxic relationship also, like maybe you were hurling out some projectile vomit and not aiming for that proverbial toilet on purpose and maybe deliberately shooting poison shrapnel in their eyes or their mouth or some other vulnerable orifice. It happens, but it’s a growing experience, your  clean up your side of the street (I got that gem of a line from Gwyneth Paltrow when Brad Pitt dumped, can you even imagine those two rubbing fuck parts *shudders*) and you move forward and make decisions how to handle it when you run into that person again. Well that dude I was blubbering about years ago in what was, looking back, AN INFINITE SADNESS, goes to my gym and has been all this time. So we have run into each other regularly. Sometimes it has been superficially friendly, not without tension, but mostly it has been a forced ignore, like dogs on the street who won’t look at each other. You should see Betty pretend a Rottweiller tied up in front of Starbucks doesn’t exist, her head rolls sideways into her fat scruff like a sleeping pigeon. Hilarious bitch.

Because the gym is a soap opera, I knew through the grapevine that he was married and had a baby recently  which was fine, I HAVE A DATE WITH A SOLID DILDO EVERY NIGHT, so I am A-OK. (My mama hates when I talk about sex, lol). But I lived in fear and dread of running into the family unit because it is bound to happen sooner or later. And how do you act and what do you say?

So the day after my blood vessel burst, my sadness was carrying me around like a good buddy, enveloping me like those ubiquitous Snow Goose parkas that we are about to be plagued with, hello winter. My gym has a bar and a forlorn ho needs a beer(s). And there he was, sitting his usual spot at the bar. FIGHT OR FLIGHT???? My mind shrieked because it’s like a hysterical fishwife, always questioning, my body sometimes has to shut it down by pretending it’s a dude and scratching its phantom balls like it doesn’t care. But this time my sadness piped up in its little sweet voice said; “Fuck It Purple (that’s an inside paint expression meaning: Go Girl, Who Gives a Fuck) just go sit beside him and talk to him and just don’t forget to breathe. You’ve got this.”

And so I did, and guess what, kittens, it was like taking a two hour piss after holding it in for 8 years! It was the best thing ever, my sadness even took off for a while, we had a couple of beers and laughed at Rob Ford. Get this: He went to high school with the Ford brothers! How cool is that? So many stories he has. It was easy and breezy and when his wife and baby showed up later, it was actually really nice to meet them. And if they noticed the burst blood vessel in my eye, they were kind enough not freak out over it.

So that was one good thing that happened last week and other than the that my sadness has transformed from a warm fuzzy parka into a scratchy mohair scarf. It’s annoying me now. Fuck It Purple, I’m going to have to take it off soon *scratches balls* because crying so boring. Let’s get some anger on, maybe in the form a a clown suit, and turn it all into a screenplay.

Aaaaand here is the best sad clown of them all…you were right, Gary:

Gravity, It’s Yer Friend

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So yeah, I got fired from my job today because of you, rat bastard internet, for giving me the forum to vent, rave, tell stories, lay my shit out, share my feelings because heaven forbid, someone might get offended. But! I still love you and have no regrets because I just don’t. I’m too old to be compliant and that job had a shelf life, let’s not kid ourselves. The last shift before I was sent to the principal’s office  manager for some protocol fuckery, I got into a staring contest with a can of white base Glidden paint and it won. It said: “I got you, bitch” and I was actually truly terrified for a few moments. I can’t be slinging paint forever! My knees will give out and my hands are wretched and I have a callous the size of a plum tomato on my pinky toe. What is my game plan? Existential angst times infinity, hookers, that is what I felt at that moment until I gave into popping another Fishermen’s Friend into my mouth. I had a lozenge salad on the counter at work that is comprised of Fishermen’s Friend, Halls, and Werthers. I was totally trying to go cold turkey on those things but I have an addiction, sir, and they make me feel alive and ready to pipe up and say the shit I gotta say.

That very same day my fate was sealed and I didn’t even know it. This blog is like just my dog, they both give me great comfort but they are both such assholes. I can’t take my dog for a walk without major embarrassment with her pulling at the leash and barking randomly like a crazy bitch and this blog does exactly the same thing. But I love them both so very much! And at night when my dog is asleep, she curls on my feet and makes sweet snoring sounds. So peaceful and serene. And I figure my blog, when it sleeps at night, does the same thing that Sandra Bullock is doing in that still from the movie “Gravity,” kind of just hovers and floats out in space. Maybe somebody notices and reads it because they just clicked on a link to “Kate Upton’s tits.” It’s so random, but they are my words and they are out there, floating and snoring out in the blogoshpere.

During my “suspension” aka pre-firing holiday weekend, I went to see “Gravity” at the Scotiabank Theatre downtown. I have to say, no one is less impressed at a 3-D cinematic experience more than me, kids. I have an astigmatism in my left eye so I am convinced the extra money is not worth it for my impaired vision. I can’t see peripherally and the the little zings of debris that pop out of the screen are too few and far between to make this a worthwhile, just saying, soooooo not worth the money, $18 and $20 for parking, that is just crazy town. You could totally get away with Netflixing this on your laptop. Yes I am getting old because I avoid the theatre but I don’t care.

But!

What an amazing, awesome, disturbing, inspiring movie though, 3-D glasses aside. Fear, anxiety, nausea, and dread and then some bravery all rolled into 90 minutes of nail-biting. I think everyone needs to see this movie when they are faced with the unknown. I know, it’s all relative, Sandra Bullock is floating precariously in motherfucking space, sucking up all the oxygen in her helmut and I am in the manager’s office, sucking on my very last Fisherman’s Friend, at that home improvement box store that will remain nameless, being terminated. She wins at fear factor but both of us need the spirit guide of George Clooney, some vodka, and a couple of parachutes.

Actually being fired was so strange and surreal that I wrote a poem about it, gather round, kids:

Waiting my fate

He is more than an hour an a half late

Did he say 9 or 10?

It’s 10:30 now, wtf?

I’m sure he said 9

He’s forgotten all about me which means everything will be fine

Wow, it’s almost 11

Maybe I should come back later, nothing rhymes with 11, yo I’m just going to go downstairs

Oh, there he is

Manager boss turning the corner with his Tim Hortons coffee cup in tow

His omnipresent rueful smile

Says he means business

He looks nothing like George Clooney

But a little Tom Hanks, kind of, but with lighter hair

Would not hit it, just saying

I stopped rhyming fyi because things are getting real

My mouth is dry and my hands are shaking

For some reason I am carrying a blank piece of paper

What for again?

Oh yes! So I could write a note

Saying I was here at 9

And you weren’t and it’s 11 and I’m going to go home but will come later like everything is N*O*R*M*A*L

He says (get this):

WAIT HERE FIVE MINUTES I NEED TO GET MYSELF IN ORDER

And now that I am writing this poem, I think:

WELL PLAYED, SLY, CONTROLLING, PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE DOUCHEBAG

Except my fate is in his hands and at the time I’m thinking:

FUCKING ASSHOLE I’VE BEEN WAITING TWO HOURS, SERIOUSLY?

Five minutes later, I have somehow accumulated some saliva

And grown some phantom testicles

That carry me up the stairs

To his office

Where he states my fate

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I wish I was a better poet, maybe something to work on during my down time. Anyway, being fired is not a great feeling and being fired for a bullshit vague reason is even more perplexing but in the end, I don’t really care all that much because as I said, it was a job with a shelf life and a launching pad for other endeavours. Yes, that is how I roll with the punches, don’t look back, ho! I hate the expression “everything happens for a reason,” in this case, it’s probably true that I created my own fate. So there’s that to suck on. I’m really gonna miss my job, I cannot lie. I cried in his office and if it wasn’t for the graciousness of another manager, I may have left bitter and angry. I’m going to miss my co-workers and the little games we played to make the day more amusing. This was the good clean one called Word of the Day: Pick an odd random word like “horse” and the challenge is that by the end of your shift, you had to use that word to a customer in conversation. You need to bring it up with gracefully like; “Oh, this mahogany coloured stain you chose is the exact shade like of hide of the HORSE I had when I was an adolescent girl. Oh how I love to ride him, his name was Tyrell.” Hilarity will ensue, I promise, if you are five minutes shy of your shift ending and you haven’t said the WOD yet, literally, you will just look at a customer and say “horse,” “lizard,” or “snowflake” for no reason whatsoever and they will look at you like you are a crazy mofo. GOOD TIMES!

“You made the department fun and everyone loved working with you,” is what she said, “whatever you do, you will be great.” Which were kind and comforting words that made me feel a little less afraid when I walked out the door …She is my George Clooney…I need a find new space station…

As I left the dust and the smell of lumber behind me, I realized fuck yeah, I got my mojo back and no one can take that away. So there’s that.