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Okay, here’s a question for you reader(s).
When someone annoys the living snot out of you, how do you deal with it?
I’ve tried the “ah-ha-ha-ha” approach and that doesn’t help. I’ve tried being causally aloof (“k.”), I’ve tried to ignore the commentary but like, I really don’t want to be a bitch (seeing as it’s all office improper and all) but like, my coping mechanisms don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried to engage in conversation hoping that I would be as found as interesting as a piece of used tape….
And this whole thing has got me thinking, what makes people not get along?
I mean, do I blame my parents? My thoughts/raising was if it’s not brought to your attention, it is not for your attention. Everyone has their own thing and if it’s not your thing to take care, you may creatively criticize, but you don’t be a douche about it.
Now for that, could people who bug me have been raised to think, “Make sure everything is taken care of, regardless of whether it’s your responsibility or not”?
Or maybe some people are content making other people want to throw their shoes. Like how the smell of garlic pleases me, maybe irritating people does it for them. (that was totally ambiguous and probably totally confusing)
It’s been a while since I’ve had the whole Am-I-A-Jerk-or-are-You-the-Jerk conflict, but I ‘m guess I’m just looking for the internets to tell me that I’m not entirely crazy, other people have people they deal with that they’d rather put outside on the lawn, and perhaps, I’m the one who is incorrect in my annoyance.
Because, frankly, there are days when I’m at my wit’s end and am so afraid that my thoughts are going to come out as word vomit at the most inappropriate time.
So maybe this is two questions.
A) How do you deal with people who annoy you to the point of wanting to throw a pad of paper at them?
B) Do you find that the way you were raised (ideals-wise) sometimes makes it hard for you to not maim other people with a highlighter?
To Whom It May Concern:
Ones desk does not qualify as an in-box when one has an in-box on his or her desk.
If you have an item which requires action, you may explain it to the actionee and then place it in the in-box. If it’s something that does not require explanation (because it is either self-explanatory or something that the actionee deals with all the time) you can just put it in the in-box.
Placing it on the desk or waving it in front of a person until they take it from you and places it in the in-box is not a reasonable action.
Also, let’s clarify “junk faxes”. Anything offering vacations, insurance, “special pricing today only” and basically anything that you (being person in question) leave RIGHT NEXT TO THE MACHINE instead of dropping it in the trash can, located directly UNDER the fax machine, is a junk fax. It will be thrown out by an annoyed co-worker. Save everyone the under-the-breath-swearing. Everyone else knows what a junk fax is. Follow suit please.
And finally, your mailbox has your name on it. Unless you’re someone else, do not take items out of other people’s mailbox. Related, if there is something delivered and it is not forwarded on to you, it is not yours. If it does not have your name on it, it is not yours. If you do not know what it is, it is not yours. Next time you do that, I hope a bunch of spring snakes (akin to the ones found in jars of “mixed nuts”) come out at you.
Yesterday I’m taking care of my relatively short grocery shopping list.
I come down the aisle towards the milk coolers and there are people standing in front of both doors to the skim milk. And they’re not talking about skim milk. GET OUT OF MY WAY.
Then, around the corner comes a mom with four (yes, 4) kids aged infant to 7/8-ish. I don’t estimate kids ages well. The older one had a cart, so he could have been 5 or 15. Regardless, so there is this mom with one of those huge shopping carts that has the car on the front (akin to the picture below, in case you live under a rock) with a kid who keeps entering/exiting the car,
a baby in the cart section (I think those are in aisle 15A, BTW), a toddler with a balloon and her lackey son with a cart of various diapers.
I’m pretty sure she saw me, which just raised my anger when she hit me in the ankle with the car/t and didn’t apologize. She was trying to sneak her baseball team in the out end of the next aisle. Oh, unless I’m the only one who see the grocery aisles governed by the same rules as the road and water (red right return).
So naturally, she tries to cut me off. And after hitting me in the ankle, I cut her off. No way lady… don’t think so.
Halfway down the aisle, she parks the minivan about an arms length away from the shelves while the balloon toting kid dances (in a very not cute way) in front of the car, but just a little towards the other side so no one can get by. It’s been a while. Mom is deciding between stewed and diced tomatoes. “Morgan (or whatever suburban name it had), get out of the way, you’re blocking people.”
And there is a collective sigh of relief from the people who want to get to the other end of the aisle.
“Chance,” she turns behind her to the son with the cart while pushing her cart forward (yeah, see the problem here?) “Can you push the cart? Just make sure that you don’t hit anyone in the ankles.”
And I hurled a can of Chunky at her.
No, I kid.
I glared at her.
And laughed when I heard her trying to discipline her troops three aisles away. “Morgan, Morgan. Morgan. MORGAN! Get in, no, get over here, Morgan. Morgan, get in the cart. In the cart. Morgan. Now. No. No. NO. GET IN THE CART. Now. Morgan. No, put that down. NOW.” etc.
Dear Woman Two Treadmills Over,
WHY DO YOU HAVE TO TALK SO LOUD ON YOUR CELL PHONE?!?!
I had to turn my iPod up to drown you out, not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES because you were trying to talk over the noise of your fit legs and feet stomping on the “superquiet” surface.
I understand that the gym is a public space and you’re welcome to talk on your phone, but I think it’s safe to say that the entire gym heard about your plans for the weekend.
Good luck on your date and I hope you got laid.
- Out of Shape Girl Two Treadmills Over
Dear Woman Who Brought Your Kid into the Women’s Only Area,
First and foremost, if you can’t control your kid, they shouldn’t be in a gym.
I am not a mother, but I do know that boys are instinctively destructive and for this reason, you certainly should not have let him “work out” on machines designed for adults.
And while I’m sure it’s “cute” that your monster bashes the weights down on the abductor, I happen to like to use that machine and if I find out that I can’t use it because the weights are broken, I’m going to crush your head between my thighs and not in any kind of kinky/sensual way.
Secondly, the room that says “Women Only Workout Area” is for women only. Granted your spawn looked like he could have passed as a girl, but if I wanted some pervert to watch me work-out (I don’t care how old he is, I DO NOT like being watched), I would have hired a trainer.
Do you have any idea how close I was to going to the front desk with your many violations? Yeah, thisclose.
Let me add that telling your child not to do that (whatever “that” may be at the time) does not constitute discipline.
Keep your brat out of the gym.
- The Girl who was Shooting You Dirty Looks
It’s one thing to not care about problems related to your account, it’s quite another to root around other peoples mailboxes.
Especially the bosses.
Just so you know.
I hear the distint brush of loafer against carpet tile.
them: is it too late for shipping?
me, with my hands in papers: nope.
them, holding a piece of paper by the corner, dangling it in front of me: Well this needs to ship.
me, still elbow-deep in papers: you can just set it on the desk.
them, looking like I just horribly offended them: okay.
MY WORLD DOES NOT REVOLVE AROUND YOU AND PICK UP YOUR FEET.
Bonus: I am going to re-orientate my in-box. If you are the offending party, I move your paperwork to the bottom of the pile.
Actually, my day starting going downhill on Monday night, when I passed out (from exhaustion people!) on the sofa around 8:30pm. In my new glasses.
Yesterday morning, I wake up late, shower and put my glasses back on. They’re lopsided. They’re sliding down my nose. I figure I’ll deal with it and it’s when I take off my glasses, I realize that one of my nosepads have fallen off. again.
I’m already running late and now I have to find and insert my already-old contacts.
Steve calls in the afternoon, asks what we’re doing for [dinner for] the game and as usual, I tell him I’ll think of something.
The day passes, I realize that I didn’t think of where I wanted to go so I decided we’ll take the subway a few stops down from the arena.
It is then that I hear it is raining. A lot.
And my contacts are drying out. But I can’t take them out due to the adjustment of my glasses and not having any more contacts.
I make it to the glasses place, get a new nose pad and pick up my new contacts (that was one plus).
After bumbling around the house, we finally make it to a rainy downtown where we have parked in the middle of everyplace to eat.
I opt to go to a restaurant that is supposed to be an old boarding house.
Oh, and a note to waitresses… yelling at your patrons will likely deter them from coming back (“YOU TOOK A MENU?!!? NO WONDER YOU DIDN’T GET SERVED, SHE THOUGHT I SEATED YOU AND SHE THOUGHT I SEATED YOU. YOU CAN’T DO THAT!!!)
Oh, and a note to restaurants, if you don’t take plastic, please note such on the menu.
We FINALLY get our food (Steve’s “hot” wings required him to douse them with extra hot sauce) and the bill, only to find out that the place doesn’t take plastic, doesn’t have an ATM and (of course) they don’t know where one is.
Seeing as it was my error decision to eat there, it was my responsibility to get cash. I layer up: long sleeve, hoodie, jersey, Steve’s jacket. I head to the bar next door. No ATM. I walk halfway to the arena to the next bar. No ATM. I walk to the arena (probably half a mile) (in the rain) (and wind). ATM.
I walk back to the restaurant. In the rain. And wind. And possibly sleet. I don’t know.
I am, however, glad that I didn’t wear my glasses and opted for new contacts.
Trudging back up the stairs to Steve, I somehow feel like I resemble a wet rat. I give him money and we promptly head back to the arena (so this is like a mile and half by now).
Between the second and third, we’re approached by a former acquaintance who continues to talk to us like nothing ever happened.
And then we lose the game.
And Steve comments about my passive driving until we’re out of the lot.
Maybe next year boys. Maybe next year.
Peeps is sayin'