I do not anger easily. Really, I don�t. But today, after four straight days of migraine headaches, and after two nights of tears, and Mr. Lucky being particularly gruesome for an entire week and despite the rather beautiful and supposed to be warm day outside which I will hardly get to enjoy because I have to go into the office � I JUST GOTTA RANT, yah know?
Dear Mr. Lucky,
You wrote a manifesto several months ago about how you were the owner and boss, how you would make all decisions and everything about the business would go through you (OR ELSE). You then fired me, hiring me back when you realized you couldn�t do the work yourself. I manage all company projects, follow the terms of your manifesto, and cc: you on emails of consequence � which means I manage to your understanding of my projects. So how is it that when I brought to your attention the decisions YOU MADE in January which affected a client�s entire project you not only
1. didn�t remember lying to the client about software readiness
2. didn�t remember the meeting with the client
3. didn�t remember agreeing to changes in the project scope because of the lie and
4. when I showed you the confirming emails you were copied on actually said to me �well, I don�t read emails I�m copied on. I have too much to do.�
And have now decided, four months into the project to change the terms of the contracts because you �didn�t know.�
And - as long as I�m letting off steam,
Why, at your age, can�t you pick up a board, or a brick, or a clump of weeds with your whole hand, instead of two fingers as if it will bite you.
Why is it that anything you finally break down and help with means days of complaints about how you hurt your hand, wrist, arm, shoulder, scapula, back or some other part of your body. Which means it�s easier to do it myself.
Why is anything having to do with going outside have to be looked at as if I am suggesting you take a walk into the center of a nuclear reactor.
Why can�t you figure out how to replace a roll of used toilet paper in the bathroom. It�s not even one of the complicated holders with three parts and a spring. It�s a damn peg.
Why can�t you remember a single holiday. Like Valentine�s Day. Or a birthday. Or your mother�s birthday? Or Christmas. Or buy a gift. Or wrap one in something other than the plastic bag it came in.
We have lived in this house for four years. FOUR YEARS. At your insistence, we each have our own phone numbers (and phones), forwarded to our cell phones if they aren�t answered. Why do you insist on answering my phone, then calling me on my cell phone to tell me I had a call.
Why, after four years, do you not know where the towels are kept, or the soup, or bread, or crackers, or sheets for the bed, or the spare boxes of Kleenex or dishwashing soap, or a pair of scissors. Or a hammer.
Why is it that when you go to the grocery store you never buy anything except YOUR milk, cereal, rice, oatmeal and little yummy things I am not to touch. And why is it that when I go to the grocery to do the real shopping, and ask you if you want anything, the answer is always a resounding NO. Yet any yummy things I buy for myself are always gone when I go to eat some.
Just once, why can�t you consider hauling in some of those grocery bags from the car.
And the reason I get paper, not plastic, despite incompetent baggers, is to line the trash can with something free and biodegradable. You can throw out the bag with the trash. Honest. Like, every time. It does not have to stay there for weeks, stinking up the kitchen. (ok, ok, yes I�m humbly grateful that you take out the kitchen trash twice a week.)
I don�t mind that you have a favorite fork, bowl and cup. That you use EVERY day for every meal. It�s that they don�t get washed between uses unless I find them and put them in the dishwasher. It doesn�t matter that the same food is going in them every day � they need soap.
Speaking of eating�..oh I just can�t. The noise is so loud I actually have to turn up the volume on the television if you are sitting on the same couch. I assume you do it just to annoy me.
ONE TIME only, clean the toilet. You may think I have balls, but I still sit. That�s your pee.
You�ve lived a lot of years. You make laundry. But you have yet to figure out Red Socks do not go in with White Underwear. And you insist on tossing my lace pretties in the dryer to melt. Your way of making sure I do it, I suppose.
Of course, you occasionally help by pulling stuff from the dryer. Funny how yours gets put away and mine gets dumped in an unfolded wrinkled pile atop my dresser. I should be grateful you bothered to take it upstairs.
Is it so hard to shovel enough snow to get my car out too? I won�t ask why you decided to buy a portable generator instead of a snowblower. Perhaps your great inventor�s mind can figure out a way to have a generator move that snow.
You wanted the bird. You bought the bird. But I buy half of the bird�s supplies. And clean the cage. And put down new papers under the cage. And vacuum up the bird seed. And change the water. And feed her. Why? Because the one time I left it to you to take care of pets, I came home to find them dead. What will happen to her when I leave you.
STOP WITH THE STUPID PUNS. Every single sentence out of your mouth does not have to begin or end with some strained pun. You don�t bother to listen to anything anyone is saying. You spend the entire conversation figuring out ways to create bad jokes. And wonder why an hour after the conversation you can�t remember it.
I would really like to have a friend (or relative) that doesn�t hate you with a passion. What are you doing to them, other than telling sexist jokes and intimating they might want to join you in a threesome.
You do not have to be the center of attention 24 hours a day. When people get together they do not want to be monopolized by stories of your army life (hello, reserves!!) your boxing career (ummm, HIGH SCHOOL) your great mathematical skills (duh, you worked as an intern at NIH one summer) the disco you owned (in the basement of your father�s restaurant�.HE owned it and paid for it, you managed it) and the fact that you apparently wrote the programming responsible for the Space Shuttle (NOT!). Oh, and I think you invented the internet.
And that you are the smartest man in the world.
Thank you for enjoying the annual �B@stard Is Totally Clueless Holiday� with me. You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.
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