After 25 years in the insurance industry, I’ve realized my résumé reads less like a list of professional accomplishments and more like a history of failed relationships. There were red flags, bad decisions, controlling partners, and a whole lot of bullshit. Most of them involved direct deposit.
What began as a harmless neighborhood Halloween decorating contest escalated into a full-scale military operation involving reconnaissance missions, heavy artillery, and weapons of mass decoration. Unfortunately, only one combatant knew there was a war.
Six years, three forced job changes, and one ridiculous pre-employment assessment later, I rediscovered something I’d buried under a doom pile of misplaced priorities. I’m a writer, dammit. And apparently, I’m also responsible for Fake Brian’s birthday cake.
They said it couldn’t be done. Actually, nobody said that. But after six years of silence, a little technological necromancy, and a questionable amount of caffeine, Angel Who Swears is alive. Again. And this time, I brought friends.
Cleaning out some secondhand filing cabinets at work led to an unexpected archaeological discovery: a stash of ancient sanitary napkins. Were they emergency supplies, the remains of an elaborate office prank, or relics from the Dark Ages of feminine hygiene? Naturally, I had questions. And apparently, now I have to throw a period party.
Do you feel constantly watched, questioned, and buried under emails from management? You may be suffering from Acute Micromanagement, also known as Intrarectal Boss Syndrome. Learn to recognize the symptoms, explore questionable treatment options, and discover why Quitting and Retirement remain the only known cures.
When management banned headphones and replaced our classic rock with an endless parade of elevator jazz, my coworkers and I found ourselves in a five-day musical hostage crisis. Armed with coffee, snacks, and increasingly desperate pleas for rescue, we prepared for one final stand: Operation Rock of Ages.
Thirty-three years after barely surviving high school Geometry, I found myself trying to help The Kid flip polygons and solve for X. Even Luna the cat questioned the practical value of it all. But when I finally solved a problem on my own, The Husband Dude got an unsolicited demonstration of just how eX-tra I can be.
The Husband Dude and I once went shopping for a dishwasher and came home with an entire kitchen. We thought we’d never top that. Then we went looking at houses and accidentally bought a lot. Because apparently, making other plans is just asking life to screw with you.
Life after Satan’s Butthole is a strange new world of office cookouts, corporate executives, and unlimited free coffee. Unfortunately, it also involves leftover cake, caramel-topped brownies, and the slow but inevitable expansion of my ass. At least the coffee is free.
Nobody tells you that becoming a parent means living with the constant fear of losing the person you love most. As Mother’s Day approaches, I reflect on the parents grieving children they’ve lost, the fragility of life, and why I’ll never miss an opportunity to tell my son I love him.
An overnight visit with the granddaughters turned into a crime drama involving stolen vegetables, a suspicious dog, and a cucumburgler. But the real horror began after bedtime, when Bug became convinced that a cowboy statue and a houseplant were watching her. Somewhere, Stephen King is taking notes.