Today we offer The Suz's top ten list. Why Working in the Shotz Brewery Sucks:
10) Someone stole my ergonomic footstool and replaced it with old boxes.
9) The copy room that smells like pee.
8) This place makes my shirts smell like feet.
7) Two words: Ferretweasel cooties
6) Two more words: someone farted
5) No chocolate
4) No booze
3) No cute boys with washboard abs
2) It's not New York. It's not London.
1) Hell, it's not even Sheboygan.
And we offer Manda's top ten list. Why Being Unemployed This Week Kicks Ass.
10) Lucked into my dream job yesterday.
9) Catbox is in the other room.
8) Cleaning lady was here Wednesday-- no foot smell here
7) Four words: No more Ferretweasel cooties
6) Four more words: Haagen Dazs Cherry Vanilla
5) Chocolate
4) Booze
3) No cute boys with washboard abs
2) Amsterdam
1) It's not the Shotz Brewery
We're working round the clock to make the Suz's list look more like Manda's list.
Friday, August 08, 2003
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
In contemporary urban living, there are some things one doesn't expect to face in one's own home.
Bats, for example.
No, really, bats.
Back in the dark ages, when I lived in a smallish city down south, I had a bat come into my apartment. I was living alone at the time, and the place had a porch that faced out onto a wooded area. It was summer and I can only guess that the bat must have come in from the porch.
So at 1:00 in the morning I called The Suz long distance. "I think there's a bat in my house."
"There's not a bat. You're high."
"I'm not high, and I think there's a bat in my apartment. AAAGGH! Yes! It's a bat it's a bat!"
This line of dialogue was accompanied by my scurrying out of the spare bedroom/ office where I had been talking on the portable phone.
"You there?"
"Yes."
"It's a bat. It's definitely a bat. What do I do now?"
"(yawn) Call animal control."
So I called animal control. A recording referred me to the county sherriff's office. The sherriff then gave me the on-call number for animal control. I dialed and proceeded to get the animal control guy and his wife out of bed.
"Ma'am, are you sure it's a bat?"
"It has a face!"
And so at 2:00 on a Wednesday night this poor guy has to shlep over to my apartment so he can trap the bat in a garbage bag.
I'd love to know the odds on this kind of thing happening to one person twice in a lifetime.
Now it's one thing to have a bat in your home in a Southern suburb. It's another to find one flopping about on your hallway floor on a Tuesday night when you're coming in from seeing Macbeth on the Common.
This bat was the last in a long chain of "how could it possibly get worse?" events.
The Suz was right there this time. I didn't have to do this alone.
So I did what any strong, independent, red-blooded American woman would do in such a situation.
I screamed. I screamed loud. I screamed hard.
And the bat flopped across the floor into the linen closet.
Later, after calling the property management company, the police, and finally animal control, it occured to us that more bats might be in the laundry baskets in the hallway.
I took the handle of my Swiffer and beat the hell out of the dirty clothes.
It felt good.
Bats, for example.
No, really, bats.
Back in the dark ages, when I lived in a smallish city down south, I had a bat come into my apartment. I was living alone at the time, and the place had a porch that faced out onto a wooded area. It was summer and I can only guess that the bat must have come in from the porch.
So at 1:00 in the morning I called The Suz long distance. "I think there's a bat in my house."
"There's not a bat. You're high."
"I'm not high, and I think there's a bat in my apartment. AAAGGH! Yes! It's a bat it's a bat!"
This line of dialogue was accompanied by my scurrying out of the spare bedroom/ office where I had been talking on the portable phone.
"You there?"
"Yes."
"It's a bat. It's definitely a bat. What do I do now?"
"(yawn) Call animal control."
So I called animal control. A recording referred me to the county sherriff's office. The sherriff then gave me the on-call number for animal control. I dialed and proceeded to get the animal control guy and his wife out of bed.
"Ma'am, are you sure it's a bat?"
"It has a face!"
And so at 2:00 on a Wednesday night this poor guy has to shlep over to my apartment so he can trap the bat in a garbage bag.
I'd love to know the odds on this kind of thing happening to one person twice in a lifetime.
Now it's one thing to have a bat in your home in a Southern suburb. It's another to find one flopping about on your hallway floor on a Tuesday night when you're coming in from seeing Macbeth on the Common.
This bat was the last in a long chain of "how could it possibly get worse?" events.
The Suz was right there this time. I didn't have to do this alone.
So I did what any strong, independent, red-blooded American woman would do in such a situation.
I screamed. I screamed loud. I screamed hard.
And the bat flopped across the floor into the linen closet.
Later, after calling the property management company, the police, and finally animal control, it occured to us that more bats might be in the laundry baskets in the hallway.
I took the handle of my Swiffer and beat the hell out of the dirty clothes.
It felt good.
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