Plenty of Tinderly Hamonizing Fish: Professional Edition

Have you ever wondered why some people get stuck with crappy bosses when others flourish in their professional relationship? The majority of people get their jobs by applying, interviewing and accepting a position within a company. Very little effort is put into seeing if the personalities between the boss and subordinate will work.

A few weeks ago, I was on yet another job interview (yeah I know, if you follow my blog, this isn’t a spoiler alert!) where the hiring panel did not have a single person from the workgroup represented. This panel was responsible for selecting this new “team member” who would never be a part of their team. It floored me that they did this. If I was hiring a person to work with me, I would at least want to meet them, shake their hand and ENSURE they brushed their teeth regularly.

In comparison, I have seen people who have essentially dated strangers. With the introduction of internet dating about 15 years ago – suddenly people filled out a questionnaire about things as nit-picky as whether or not they eat fast food and then were matched with other people that they had a good chance of meshing with.

So this begs the question: why aren’t working relationships also based on not only skill but personality? Assuming that a person works 10 hours a day – commute and lunch included - and sleeps 8 hours a day, a person spends 62.5% of their waking (read: LIVING) hours at work. Why isn’t more done to make sure that the boss and the employee at least LIKE each other?

INTRODUCING:

PLENTY OF TINDERLY HARMONIZING FISH: PROFESSIONAL EDITION

That’s right folks. I am totally suggesting a merge of dating websites with job applications. Not only does a person have to have the skills, they also have to have the personable qualities. In my new app, employers can swipe left to dump you and right to keep you. So if you’re professional photo isn’t up to the par it’s like a Beyonce song --- to the left, to the left…..exit stage left with your terrible profile pic with your government issued politician hair. Ew. (That is another post entirely.)

I think this new app will accomplish a few things:

#1. Personal Hygiene will come back in style. In the Pacific Northwest, I can’t tell you how many people I have seen in professional settings who have just so clearly given up on life. By submitting a profile pic, you can better ensure the potential new employees will have taken the time to get a haircut, brushed their hair and teeth and have bothered to get out of their pajamas. At the very least, you will know their filtering techniques are on point and you can at least put their ugly ass in the IT department.

#2. Employees will be matched with their employer. Meaning, less HR issues due to personality conflicts. Humor or lack thereof will be similar, eating styles will be similar and water cooler conversations will flow more easily.

#3. Employees can also choose their employer! An employee will know in advance of accepting a position whether or not they are going to be working for an asshole. They can actually check with relative certainty if the grass is greener.

And many other fascinating things for sure!

So, next time you want to see if you would be a good fit, just look up Plenty of Tinderly Harmonizing Fish: Professional Edition and give it a go.

I told my friends I would be there

I am 34 years old and you would think by now I could manage my friends and peer pressure a little better. But I can’t. There are certain people in my life that I just refuse to say no to. They could probably offer me drugs and I would do it just to fit in. Also, if they jumped off a bridge, I would too. I love these people. As to not further give them any power, I will not disclose their names.

Last month tickets went on sale for Watershed 2016. Watershed is a 5-day country music festival at the Gorge Amphitheater in George, Washington. Alongside this music festival there is also camping – for an additional cost. Now, from what my friends tell me, there are two different kinds of camping – General Population (coined Gen Pop) and Big Rig (for trailers, RV’s and Fifth Wheels). The night before tickets went on sale my friend Randy* coached me that I needed general admission tickets and Big Rig camping. That – and I quote directly – “If you don’t get Big Rig camping, people are going to piss on you, force you to join a temporary Harem, party for days on end and you will have to go to the bathroom in what they call the grumpy dump. You don’t even want to know what the grumpy dump is! Make sure you get Big Rig camping.”

(Please note readers, I do not own a “Big Rig” I have the equivalent of a covered wagon that I camp in. My boyfriend likes to rough it in the great outdoors, so when I yowl and cry about the bathroom situation or the temperature inside said covered wagon, he gently reminds me how wonderful nature is. In my humble opinion, nature can bite me. I like microwaves, heating, AC and my stereo. But I digress… I don’t like the payment of a Big Rig.)

So the next day, I take an hour of vacation time at work so that I can log onto the Watershed website from my phone and get these tickets. Now, I will just note here that this whole experience, of a lifetime no doubt, is going to run me about $700. So instead of dutifully making my house payment, I logged on. I told my friends I would be there – damn the mortgage! As the countdown begins for tickets to go on sale, I can feel my palms getting sweaty and I am shaking. I hear Eminem’s song lyrics about mom’s spaghetti on a repeat loop in my mind. This is the real deal. Get the tickets. Get Big Rig camping. Avoid the Grumpy Dump. I told my friends I would be there.

10:00 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. Try again. Damn.

10:05 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. Try again. Shit.

10:10 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. Try again. F*ck!!!  This is a lot more effort than I thought.

I message Randy: “This isn’t working. Maybe they are sold out.

Randy: “Keep trying. Don’t you want this??”

Me: “Yes”

Randy: “Then keep trying!”

I wipe the sweat from my palms and mop my forehead. I try again.

10:15 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. Try again. Double F*CK!!!!.

10:20 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. Try again. So over this. Do I really want to go? Yes, I do.

10:25 a.m. I log on and select the tickets that I want and the Big Rig camping. I have to enter a CAPTCHA so the computer knows I am legit. I wait. And I wait. And I wait.

Twenty minutes later it gives me two tickets but BIG RIG CAMPING IS SOLD OUT! How can that even be?? In a panicked state of not wanting to lose my tickets, I purchase festival tickets and Gen Pop camping. I am going to get pissed on and my 34 year streak of being drug free is going to come to a screeching halt. 

I feel so humiliated and disgusted with myself that I can’t even look at Randy’s text without putting my iPhone face down in shame. I couldn’t even secure Big Rig tickets. What sort of concert attendee was I anyway? I finally worked up the nerve to text and it goes something like this:

Me: I got the tickets!

Randy: Oh good! You’ll love camping with all of us in Big Rig land. Gen Pop is so gross. Only losers camp in Gen Pop.

Me: Yeah totally gross. I only plan to be there to sleep.

Randy: What?

I then tell the tale of woe, how Big Rig was sold out and I couldn’t understand why. She just replies with “Its fine.” Which I know it’s not. I told my friends I would be in Big Rig.

Later that night, after I have obsessed about this dilemma all day, I have come to a conclusion: I am going to buy a trailer and park it at the very edge of Gen Pop so I can still be somewhat near my friends. When I propose this idea to my boyfriend he looks at me like I have lost my mind.

Boyfriend: So you’re going to buy a $20,000 to go camping with your friends, but not really, for one weekend?

Me: Yes.

Boyfriend: What about our tent? It works just fine.

Me: But I want a trailer!!!! Everyone has a trailer but me!!

I would like to note that my boyfriend is 19 years my senior and yes, sometimes, I act like a complete child and he has to “parent” me. He also doesn’t seem to care very much whether I am popular or what my friends want me to do. Which is weird I think. In hindsight, I think he wants me to be a nerd so no one else wants me. I’ll have to look into that… So basically the trailer idea is thrown out of the window.

Since the ticket buying day, Randy and I have been scheming like a set of Mean Girls on how to get me into Big Rig camping. The price has been inflated to $650 for a spot on StubHub (Still better than a new trailer!) so I think my best bet is to start a Go Fund Me for my next camping spot, and my extra house payment.

Please donate! Thanks!

*Real name withheld to protect identity

The Most Awful Interview – Ever.

I had long believed that the worst interview I had ever witnessed was when Britney Spears sat down with Barbara Walters shortly after her split with K-Fed. (Poor guy, does anyone else think it’s slightly rude to only refer to a man by his Hollywood made-up nickname?). Anyhow, I thought that was bad - until I did my very first phone interview. Then I, lowly Dacia, took the crown from the princess of pop, or whatever they call her.

For those of you who are professional interviewers who never get chosen for the position (like me) you don’t get overly excited or anxious about an interview. How hard can it be you ask yourself. You have done a zillion of them. In fact, you could probably recite your “Tell us about yourself” elevator speech backwards because you know it so well. You can theatrically represent the best customer service you ever provided when you heroically saved the day – and the baby from the 10^th story of a burning building – and righted all wrongs. This was me prior to the one phone call that destroyed me.

It was a lovely winter day and I was plugging along at my desk. My phone rang and when I answered it, a kind woman asked if I would like to interview for a position I had applied for a few weeks earlier. I eagerly replied that I would love to and opened my calendar. The only days I couldn’t do it were the following Wednesday thru Friday as I would be out of town on vacation. Of course, since I put that thought out into the universe and I clearly have some terrible karma coming my way, the only day that was available for me to interview was day 1 of my vacation. FML. There goes airplane shots and trap music. In sort of a panicked state, I tried to get the phone lady to reschedule me for a different time. Due to more terrible karma, the day and time stuck with me – I had to do my interview over the phone.

The position I applied for was a level higher than where I currently am. It wasn’t a giant leap by any stretch but it was a position that I couldn’t pass up. It was a great next step in my career. I had met with the manager before applying and of course he was smart as a whip (did that phrase just age me by 20 years?!) and a total doll. I kind of really wanted the job. The only catch was that while I met the qualifications, I had no real direct experience in the job. I had actually worked in a similar job but really I watched my co-workers perform this job. Let me put it to you like this…..I figured since I could strut my stuff down my hallway at home, a catwalk as a model would be a slam dunk.

So like any college try, I studied my ass off and even wrote out answers to imaginary questions. I practiced in the mirror and I even thought of a few interview jokes. I learned who would be interviewing me and I had diagrams of their work printed off from the internet. I was prepared! I even took it so far to practice my “phone voice” with my friends (note: sex phone operator jobs are no joke! You really have to have a knack for it!). 

Some of the advantages of phone interviewing (which are VERY few) is that I didn’t have to get into my hair stylist to have my roots touched up, no power suit or crash diet needed, no sitting with a ramrod straight back uncomfortably for an hour or more and my hair wouldn’t go flat. Outside of that, Screwedville was straight where I was headed – without a margarita or airplane shot.

When I got to my destination and checked into my accommodations, I settled into my interview mode. I shoved my boyfriend into a dark closet (I needed privacy) and sprawled all of my materials around me. When the phone call came I realized that they were putting me on mute while I answered their questions. Dead silence doesn’t lend itself to comfort! I panicked and answered their questions with a bunch of “um….ya know……uh…” After about 10 minutes of that, I was ready to have an accidental disconnect and then promptly die. Instead, I pulled myself up by my bootstraps and continued to fight the good fight. This is when they decided to lighten the mood and ask some personality questions. Great.

Personality Question 1: If you could be any animal, what would it be?

Now, Facebook quizzes have pointed to my spirit animal being a buffalo, but I am not sure how I would creatively work this into an interview piece. Instead I announce (loudly mind you. Too loudly.) a Cheetah. Now, why on earth would I pick a Cheetah? Well in some cases, I could say that I very closely resemble a cat. A domestic cat that sleeps 12-16 hours any given day and only wakes to sleep and shit. Yep, sounds a lot like me. I could also spin the Cheetah choice into something like “Oh I picked a cheetah because they are the fastest land mammal and they live in sunny places!” (which is what I said). But the real reason I chose a cheetah? Because I did a 5^th grade report on them and at the time of the interview question, that was the only animal I could think of.

Personality Question 2: If we were celebrating our successes as a team in a year from now, what would those successes be?

My answer: A job well done and accomplishing our goals. They should have replied: Duh dumb shit, that is why we are celebrating. Honestly, the only thing that came to my mind with this question was, what bar was said “celebration” being held at, what was I going to wear to my imaginary celebration, and was it a Mojito or Coors Light kind of night. I successfully turned this question into a conversation about cupcakes and the importance of food in my life so hopefully I gained a point or two.

Personality Question 3: What is your favorite quote and what does it mean to you?

The only thing buzzing through my brain at this moment are 2Pac lyrics that are in no way shape or form appropriate for the office or anywhere really. I couldn’t really pop off with something along the lines of gang violence and food stamps. But honestly NOTHING came to mind. Instead, I went for half a Bible verse, couldn’t remember the rest of it, and ended with hakuna matata. I quoted the damn Lion King.

Needless to say, it was a “don’t call us, we’ll call you” situation and I ended the call. I let my boyfriend out of the closet and our vacation began.

Moral of the story… DO NOT EVER INTERVIEW OVER THE PHONE!

Update: The super cool manager called me a week later to tell me that I did an amazing job and that I was the most genuine and friendly person. This is manager talk for: “Girl, you have got the mind of a jelly bean.” They didn’t hire me. Onto the next.

Working Sucks.

Ahhh…..It’s Tuesday morning. The morning following a holiday, 3-day weekend. There is nothing like having a bunch of time off to realize how much working sucks. I have often thought about the amount of time I spend at work and it is really a catch-22. Like most people, I didn’t choose my profession per se, I sort of fell into it, started making enough money to qualify as working poor and BOOM! Suddenly I am over a decade in and now it seems silly to change. Out of all the lovely people I work with, I am willing to bet that only 10% of them actually chose to work in the field they do. I honestly can’t see a bright eyed eight year old saying “Mommy, when I grow up, I want to be a public servant.”

So, back to the amount of time it takes to work full time. Forty hours a week doing something that you didn’t necessarily choose, and then are told through team building and whatnot to feel passionate about – well, that’s almost like trying to sleep with an ugly person. It just isn’t going to happen. Either that passion is there or it’s not, and no amount of lipstick on a pig is going to make it look any different than a pig. Work is just that, a four-letter necessary evil in life.

Then there is the flip side – finding love, quitting your job and being domesticated. If this lifestyle doesn’t scream “closet alcoholic” it should. I am sure there are plenty of satisfied stay at home parents or partners out there who are not alcoholics, but I think one of two things, a.) What’s the fun and/or point in that? b.) These people are liars. I never ever could stay home full-time (unless of course someone can invent calorie free vodka)…. Then we might be onto something.

To further my point, my mom stayed home with me. She did an amazing job keeping house, cooking, dealing with me that even on my best day; I would look like an epic failure. Even to this day, my DOG is excited when my mom comes to visit. I think he gives her this secret look that says, “Grandma, please take me away from this filthy pit.” Of course I smile, lightly nudge his face with my toe and say, “Oh it’s so hard when you’re working all the time.” Pah-leeze. My mom knows a liar when she sees one. She knows that I don’t care that my house looks like a cotton candy factory when I turn on the ceiling fan because the dust bunnies and dog hair take flight. But at least she lets me lie and get away with it. Perks of being an adult.

So since I am not passionate about my profession and I can’t stay home, what’s next? Here is a list (not exhaustive) of careers I have considered:

·         World famous author

·         Dog walker

·         Stand up comedian

·         Gas station attendant

·         Hair dresser

·         Famous pop singer

·         Costco receipt checker

·         Famous guitar player

·         Stripper

·         Walmart greeter

·         Waitress at a diner

Most of these are a bit lofty, I’ll admit, because I don’t exactly have the body of a stripper and that seems to be a prerequisite for most of these occupations. I also don’t know that I would like to be in the limelight all the time like the Costco receipt checker or Walmart greeter. I do like a bit of alone time at work. A gas station attendant would be almost perfect but maybe in a location like Mobile, Alabama (where the fun happens).

Anyhow, enough day dreaming. This future Author/Comedian/Waitress/Guitarist has to keep her day job for now and go to work.

Please message me if you ever do see zero calorie Vodka. I know it’s coming!

Airplane Etiquette

(Authors note: This was meant to be a funny post that sort of turned into a rant. So basically, I want you to take it seriously and laugh.)

I just returned home from jet-setting to one of my favorite places – Los Angeles, California. It has such an eclectic vibe from Hollywood hopefuls, to the extremely wealthy of the 90210, Venice beach bums, regular city bums, and tourists. ­­­­­The trip itself was a fabulous time and I can’t wait to go back. Unfortunately, I wish there was a way to teleport myself rather than fly.

I will be the first to admit, no matter how much I travel, the minute I see my name printed on a boarding pass (which I will then promptly lose and panic – I really should switch to electronic boarding passes) I get a case of the butterflies in my stomach. I love to fly. I like the uninterrupted me time that it affords. I can finally knock out a few hours of reading, napping, watching a movie, or staring down the aisle (I don’t do window seats). However! I still do not understand how travelers still fail to follow airplane etiquette. Below is my list of airplane etiquette do’s and don’ts.

Security Check-Point

The reason for a security check-point is to make sure you aren’t a lunatic terrorist. Additionally, this check-point also highlights the narcissistic jackasses that may be on the same flight as you. Every person should know by now that when you go to the airport EVERYTHING goes into the plastic bin to be scanned. Basically, if the airport could get you down to your roos, they would. They scan everything. Read that again, everything. Shoes, wallets, purses, belts, jackets, cell phones, iPads, laptops, you name it – if it can come off of you without causing you to be naked, it is coming off and being scanned. There is no use in asking if you should take it off – just do it. This process takes so long because people are idiots and believe they are above the scan. You are not. Additionally, after you have asked your 20 “clarifying” questions, do not re-dress on the other end of the conveyer belt after you have been scanned. Grab your crap and hustle out of the way. Nothing is more annoying than a fashion plate diva taking her time to put on her clothes and jewelry and then continuing to wait while she reorganizes her purse. Don’t be that girl (or guy)! And really, who needs to be that dressed up for a flight?

Carry-On Bags

Notice that this subheading didn’t read carry-on luggage? Nothing irks me more than someone trying to shove a 75lb bag that is bulging at the seams into the overhead compartment. They have measurements and protocols in place because that is what comfortably fits in the overhead compartment! I realize with the increase of fees in the airline industry that people are trying to get away with only packing a carry-on, but if you simply can’t fit your two weeks’ worth of ensembles into a small carry-on bag, then please check it. Listen up – even if you miraculously make it past the airline stewards, you are being a complete asshat to your fellow traveling mates by standing there trying to shove an elephant into a mouse hole. CHECK YOUR BAG.

My Seat, Your Seat

Remember that line in Dirty Dancing, “This is my dance space; this is your dance space. I don’t go into yours, you don’t go into mine”? The same is true on an airplane. Please do not use the back of the seat in front of you to haul your butt up to use the restroom. This is what an arm rest is for. Additionally, don’t be an armrest hog – you only get one and the other person next to you gets the other. Keep your elbows in when it isn’t your armrest. However, should the person sitting next to you curl up in the fetal position and zonk out (presumably hung over), you are more than welcome to use their arm rest until they wake up. Also, do no­­t ask someone to switch seats with you. They picked their seat when they booked the flight and so did you. Too bad your friends didn’t wait for you to agree to the trip before booking their flights – this is a friend problem, not a stranger-in-the-seat-you-want problem.

Also, about your seat…if you are a person who needs to use the restroom a lot more than usual, DO NOT book yourself for a window seat. Window seats are reserved for sleepers, those with known and chronic hangovers, people who do not want to interact and those who can hold their bladder. Aisle seats are for those more active travelers who constantly need to get up. Middle seats are for those who didn’t book their own flight (spouses, kids, etc). So please, choose your seat according to your pre-assessed needs.

Safety is a MUST

This message should be clear – SHUT UP during the safety briefing. If you fly frequently this may be hard to do, but first time flyers need to know what to do in an emergency. Really. This is a big deal, shut up and listen. The whole song and dance goes for a whopping 2 minutes (believe me, I timed it) so please, shut your trap and watch the pretty lady point to the illuminated strips on the floor that lead to the exit.

Eat this, Not that

I am not talking about a diet here. There is an appropriate time for certain foods and an inappropriate time. For loud crunchy people, flight is about the only time you can crunch without annoying anyone so go ahead and chomp away. However, there are certain foods you should never eat within close proximity of people who can’t get away from your smelly self:

·         Corn Nuts

·         Doritos

·         Corn Nuts

·         Funyuns – think, “Fun for No one!”

·         Fritos

·         Flavored Potato Chips

·         Corn Nuts

·         Cheetos

Did I mention Corn Nuts? Never fails that someone on the flight just happened to pick up a 10 pound bag of those damn things. Gross. Don’t make people smell your food.

Smelly Cat

In relation to Eat this, Not that, please – PLEASE – shower, wear clean clothes, wash your hair and use deodorant the day of your flight. No one wants to sit next to the stinky person and believe me, EVERYONE can smell you.

De-Boarding

Getting off the plane is just as important as the rest of the flight. Here are my tips:

1.       Wait for the rows ahead of you to disembark before you. Meaning: don’t bum rush up the middle aisle hoping to jump ahead in the cue. Wait your turn.

2.       Gents, if a lady is sitting across from you – or ladies, a person who is your elder – let them out first. Common courtesy.

3.       If you were the jackass that shoved your oversized luggage in the overhead compartment, it would behoove you to wait for others to pass you before you start your struggle with your bag.

Note to the airlines: Why can’t people without any carry-on bags exit the aircraft first? Seems to me you would clear out a lot of the congestion and give the carry-on folks room for their bags to come out of the overhead compartment. Brilliant, yes??

Some final thoughts, I know it is allowable to have children and small animals on airplanes, but if you can’t legally drug them and they are feisty at home – please leave them at home. I didn’t just pay a ton of money to hear you argue with your kid for six hours on my way to Mexico. Besides, what terrible parent brings their young children to Mexico? Are you a glutton for punishment?? No need for your “all-inclusive”….

Anyhow, next time you get on a plane headed somewhere, please dig deep into your etiquette pockets and do everyone a favor by not being an asshat.

 (Authors note: Rant Over. Seriously.)

Adventures at the Vet

My dog Chunk is an 80 lb. black Labrador retriever. While away on a business trip my wonderful boyfriend offered to keep him so I wouldn’t have to pay for a kennel. My boyfriend has two large dogs as well – Zoey an Aussie Doodle; and Zephyr a Scottish Deer Hound – so it made sense that Chunk would have a fun time vacationing with the Z’s while I slaved over work in Spokane.

My boyfriend called me when I was away to say that Chunk seemed to have an ear infection because he was shaking his head and his ears smelled bad. I told him that I would make a vet appointment and take him in when I got home. I had been home just a day and realized Chunk was also likely constipated. After a quick Google search, I learned that pumpkin would remedy the pooping situation but I still would need to take him to the vet. I called the vet once more and bumped his appointment up by a day.

We left for the vet a little early and was greeted by the receptionist where I was asked to have him stand on a scale. Now, anyone who has ever encountered a lab knows that they are made of all springs and fluff. Getting this big oaf to stand on the scale – with all body parts on the scale at the same time – was no small feat. We weighed the back end of him, the front end of him, the both of us on the scale but with one paw off and finally after a lot of coaxing with a treat he didn’t even want; we got him on the scale. He had lost 2 pounds since January which proved to me that our recent running regimen would also work for me if I could just stick to eating bland food.

Anyhow, the nice reception lady ushered us into exam room 4 where we would just have to wait a few minutes for the vet and technician. Ten minutes later a very nervous looking veterinarian entered the room. Chunk walked over to greet him and I extended a slobbered hand in salutation. He spoke in a very kind way and had a general look of concern for my dog but I couldn’t help but shake the feeling that this man might be afraid of the Chunkinator. I thought, if you can’t make it past a Labrador, what do you do with the other larger more aggressive dogs? Little did I know that his chart indicated he was that large aggressive dog. Apparently there is a doctor/patient privacy act when it comes to K-9 behavior with veterinary staff. Had I known ahead of time he was a jack-ass I would have sent my boyfriend. But I digress…

Dr. Nice Guy bent low to the ground and held out a tentative hand for Chunk to sniff. Chunk got really still and then leaned into me. The vet reached for Chunk’s big black lips and attempted to examine his teeth. They were somewhat orange looking based on the pumpkin I had been feeding him so I made a mental note to purchase a Sonicare toothbrush and cruise the internet for some doggie white strips. As Dr. Nice Guy tried to get a good look, Chunk let out a warning growl (much to my amazement and somewhat pride) and the vet immediately backed away. As a courtesy, I apologized for Chunk.

Next he decided to try and feel Chunks belly and tail. I thought to myself, I am not a veterinarian but my instinct tells me that if someone doesn’t give you access to their face, their rear end has got to be off limits. But I wasn’t the professional here, so I kept my mouth shut. As soon as the doctor reached for the rear end of my dog, Chunk let out this awful growling snarl and nipped his hand. I didn’t think it was an actual bite because I didn’t see blood but it was enough to startle Mr. Nice Guy. The doctor again stood up and stated that he would need to take my dog in the back room to be able to examine him. I figured this is a nice way of saying, We need to beat your animal into submission so that we can then heal him. So I handed over the leash and away Chunk went.

I sat in exam room 4 for about 10 minutes by myself and there was absolutely nothing to do in there and the cell service was spotty at best so there was no updating my Facebook status or Words with Friends games. I decided to count ceiling tiles in case there was ever a trivia question about this topic and then started on the floor tiles. I was almost done counting the Q-tips in the jar on the counter when the door opened and the vet technician led the team through the door.

Excited to have company in exam room 4, I enthusiastically greet them with, Oh, did it go a lot better back there? The tech looked at the floor tiles*, and then I saw Chunk – with a smiley face printed muzzle around his snout. That asshole. Doesn’t he realize what a terrible owner I look like when he acts like a frickin animal? I raised him better than this.

“What happened?” I asked the doctor.

“Well, he got a bit aggressive with us back there so we had to muzzle him.”

“I’m so sorry!” I look down at Chunk. Then I start thinking about this muzzle situation. This could really benefit me. I wouldn’t have to keep food off the counters at home, he wouldn’t bark when I was on the phone, and he certainly wouldn’t do that weird heavy breathing thing in my face while I was driving. Maybe I needed to look into one of these contraptions. But then, why stop there?? You know how many annoying people I encounter when I go out? I could just muzzle them up and slip a straw in between their lips and they can drink their beer and I can enjoy my night out without listening to them. This thing has endless possibilities!

I rearrange my face so that I am looking less excitable and more sorrowful.

“So what’s next doctor?” I try sound like one of those worried pet owners that you see on Animal Planet. I don’t want to look like a complete dick that I think the muzzle is cool.

“Well, he needs his shots still.”

Damn it! Why didn't they do that while he was in the back and they could muscle him around? The vet then instructs me that I am to “hold” this beast while he shoots practical arrows into his rump. I really want to know how many Q-Tips are in that jar now. Why can’t these people take my dog, go away and bring him back new? I straddle Chunk like the moose he is and brace for impact as I know this to be a bumpy ride. I wonder, how buck can you get with your own dog before they would think about calling the equivalent of Child Protective Services on you? I know from experience I can body slam him into submission – I have bathed him a time or two.

The first shot is attempted. I can practically hear Chunk yell obscenities at the doctor as he bucks and huffs and puffs through his muzzle. He is jerking like a bull at a rodeo and I am holding on for dear life. Then I hear the doctor say, I missed. What?? We have to do this again? The doctor is standing there with a wild look in his eyes and a needle in his hand. He eyes Chunk and Chunk’s brown eyes widen in fear. I tighten my grip once again and bury my face into his neck. Again, the rodeo bull is bucking and thrashing and in a finale of bucking he rears his head and knocks me straight in the jaw. I see stars and an instant headache starts pounding in my head. I reach for my chin and I can already feel a lump forming. Neat. My dog just totally chin checked me.

The next two shots are less eventful and the doctor gives me instructions for Chunks care. After all the commotion I forget that he can’t poop and both of his ears are infected. I buy every prescription imaginable and some treats to hide the pills in and after paying a grand total of $236 to have my dog beaten, molested, stabbed and have my jaw crushed, we head back out to the car. I need a coffee, a nap and an ice pack.

*Probably trying to out-count me, but I already committed the number to memory. 55.

My Burning Curiosity with Bikini Baristas

I decided to resurrect Adventures in Dacialand after a long hiatus due to a Bikini Barista stand by the name of Blendz Girls moving into my little Podunk of a town in Nowhere Western Washington. I would like to start this article by clearly stating that I, in no way shape or form, care whether or not scantily clad ladies are hanging out in a box on downtown street US of A. However, I would also like to state for my readers out there that I am rather Fascinated by these businesses and I will tell you why. My only hope is that some lovely lady at one of these stands would read this and answer all of my burning questions.

In a past life I worked as barista – one which required me to be fully clothed. What I really want to know is when these girls wake up in the morning to go to work, are they really arriving at 5 a.m. in lingerie? Now; as a young(ish) woman, I can’t tell you a time when I was actually excited – nor looked good – nor felt comfortable – wearing lingerie. In the past if I actually felt the need to wear such clothing, I would wait until evening (when it was pitch black outside with no chance of light for hours), there were no chance of guests dropping by my house to visit, I had had a few boxes of wine and after evaluating the garment for a long while – mind you this stuff sat in its Victoria’s Secret* bag for months if not years before its “big reveal” – I would finally muster the courage to adorn it only to yell at my partner to shut the damn light off and to quit looking at me while I dove under the blankets only to take the lingerie off and fall asleep due to the wine. So really – 5 a.m. with daylight around the corner, strangers and coffee (not wine)?

Secondly, I like my co-workers. They are decent human beings. We all work together because we don’t have a choice and we are all committed to the long haul. However, all of that being said – I don’t ever want to see ANY of them in anything less than a bulky turtleneck sweater, trousers, and more layers of clothes due to the excessive air conditioning in my office. I don’t even really want to be able to differentiate between male or female co-worker. So, when these girls go to work, and their box partner is wearing, let’s say a thong and pasties – where do you look? Do you compliment her choice in blue pasties rather than red because they bring out the color in her eyes? I just wonder how awkward that is. I would like to note here that I also have a phobia of naked people who walk around gym locker rooms for the sake of it being a gym locker room and they are allowed to be nude. I agree their nudity is slightly more appropriate; however I stress the word slightly.

Staying on the topic of clothing…I live in Western Washington. It isn’t a part of the country that I would necessarily consider “balmy”. In fact, I wear *yawn* office attire to work and most of the time I am wrapped up in my wool dress coat and Snuggie, shivering in fingerless gloves while I type. Tomorrow morning, the temperature outside is supposed to be 34 degrees at 6 a.m. How do these girls not freeze when they go to work in fishnet leotards and go-go boots? Are the boots that insulating? If so, I would like someone to post a link to where I can purchase a pair for my own wardrobe – seriously.

Still on the costume kick – how much are these ladies spending on these get-ups? They are like mini-celebrities in that they can’t be caught twice in the same outfit. As any woman knows, lingerie is ridiculously expensive (which baffles me, but that could be another post entirely). So are they able to write that off on their taxes or does their employer supply the costumes? I can hear it now, “Bambi, tomorrow you are going to be a sailor and Buffi, you are going to be red riding hood – but a slutty red riding hood.” And my biggest burning question, do they stop by the store on their way home for a gallon of milk in their crotchless teddy? If so, I have some single guy friends that would like to know which grocery store they frequent. (Bambi and Buffi, if you are reading this, you can PM me.) J

I understand that you can earn really good tips by showing some skin. I am totally not that out of touch with reality. In fact, if my employer offered that, I might ditch the Snuggie. (Heavy on the might.) However, what kinds of men are tipping that money? I am venturing a guess that women don’t frequent these barista stands as their hate messages clearly imply they won’t be taking their mini-van and ten snotty children for a stroll in the drive-thru lane, so we are left with men. I would also like to remove men who respect (fear) their angry mini-van wives, gay men, and you’re left with single men before 8 a.m. and then bums and criminals for the rest of the day. Do these women really want to interact with this type of clientele? I would guess the answer is no, considering they are attractive women and have “bubbling personalities”**. If I were them, I would rally for a bodyguard and/or bouncer.

As a customer, I would like it advertised better when there is a bikini barista in the area. I am a total lookie-lou and would love to do a drive-by of these establishments and then tell all my friends about them. However, the name “Blendz Girls” doesn’t tip me off to what the business actually is. Just as there is a male bikini barista stand in Bremerton named, “Banana Hammock”. I was disappointed that these men didn’t sell bananas or hammocks and instead I got stuck with a crappy cup of coffee that was overpriced. Please, to anyone who is operating one of these businesses, name them appropriately. Edmonds, Washington was smart with theirs and named it “Java Jugs”. I get that nomenclature.

Finally, I would like to end this post on a serious note, I hope all these ladies are safe, don’t burn their pretty body parts with scalding hot water, and enjoy the crazy career that they have started – Go get those dollars naked ladies! You earned it!

*Ross

**Direct quote from an adoring customer on Facebook.