Just because the nice man sells you blinking green clover pins, doesn’t mean you have to put them on your breasts. Lesson learned.

Picture it: Boston, St. Patty’s Day, 2003.

Rachael was up visiting from IU…and I mean, come on, who wouldn’t leave Indiana for Boston…and I decided to take her downtown for a couple* of drinks in honor of the biggest holiday in Boston. We had no idea how big.

Being the cheapos that we are, selection of the drinking venue rested entirely on the cover charge. Our winner, The Tap, was $5. By pure luck (pun intended) we ran into some people that I know and found a few tables at the very front, right next to the open windows. If you’re familiar with how loud I am sober, you can only imagine the intensity when you add a few pints of cider in the mix. We arrived at 6 and by 8 Rach and I had officially designated ourselves head of marketing for the bar. We shouted out at anyone passing by on the sidewalk, telling them reasons why they needed to drink there. It was using this method, with promoters walking by, that we came to get our attire for the evening: a green budweiser shirt (tied 80s style at the waist), a green leiu, green beads, a green clover painted on our face, and of course, the blinking tits.

Fun Fact: On St. Patty’s Day, FBI stands for “Full Blooded Irish.” The men, bearing tshirts with the letters, don’t mind it if you scream “FBI!!! woohooo!!! FBI!!!!” at them.

Once we dragged ourselves away from the window, and only becaused they closed them, we decided to hit the dance floor. We run into a bunch of Navy boys who, luck would have it, were leaving the next day “for the war.” Well, now’s it’s 10pm and I have decided it is my civic duty to make sure they have a good time on their last night out. It’s after I drink a Bud Light, while dancing, that I start making out with said Navy boy. He happens to be named Patrick; I mean, come on, don’t I have to kiss him?? This is case and point as to why I do not drink beer.

At any rate, we drag ourselves home on the T, where I find myself passed out. Rach awakens me to get my cell number to give some dude, a dude I thought SHE LIKED, and then later she’s all “now why did you give him your REAL number??” Ummm, I don’t know, cause I was drunk and passed out and I thought you liked him? At any rate, he’s been phone stalking us for days. Rach finally had to tell him this was “Janice” and when he said “but the voicemail says Kristina” she replies back “well, I guess someone must have snuck in and changed it!” CLICK.

It’s good to have friends like that.

Oh, and another thing about those clover lights- they have been known to cause epileptic seizures. You really can’t bring them out in the light of day, they’ll mess you up.

I had to go the dentist yesterday. I have the super cheap insurance, so I get to be experimented upon by the BU dental students. The good news is that they listen to actual music- yesterday I heard Hot in Herre (Nelly) and Always (Jon Bon Jovi). My dentist is a first year resident with a name that I cannot pronounce and his assistant is a second year student who is way too liberal with the sprayer/suction tool. I guess the nonpronoucable name is an improvement over my former dentists’, Dr. Hammer and Dr. Slaughter.

Dr. B, I know the same starts with a B, spent an hour drilling at two of my teeth, to the point where I was pretty sure I was gonna walk outta there with a gap in my smile. Luckily, my novacaine runneth over and I was in no pain. However, Dr. B is concerned that I have f’d up the teeth quite a bit and might have to get a root canal. Now, I hear that things have revolutionzed quite a bit since the 50s (when dentist had the highest rate of suicide due to anxiety over the pain they inflincted on their patients), but I’m not looking forward to this one bit. Plus, I already have to get my bottom wisdom teeth extracted. I’m gonna have one messed up mouth when this is all said and done…

No wonder everyone quits this job. It’s complete bullshit.

So…it snowed today. Again. Imagine us, falling on our asses in the snow, trying to see the CT1 through the blinding mess. Now imagine our good friend, Tara, in the Caribbean basking in the sun. We’re not bitter or anything. We chose this fate, to live in hell and be alone for eternity. Oh, and to pay an exorbitant amount for rent.

But back to what we were saying earlier; we are having a “bitch session� regarding our “duties� at work. Since we are a little angry right now, we will try not to rant in an incoherent manner. Instead, we have vented our rage out loud and now will outline them for you in this lovely list:

1. The basic problem: everything we do is “First Priority.� For example, the recruiters are always telling us that “X� needs to be done, as it is “First Priority.� However, it turns out that this applies to every single job they have for us. “X� includes doing reference checks, writing offer letters, printing out online resumes (bullshit), counting online resumes (more bullshit), dealing with applicants who won’t give us their birth date or marital status (“ma’am, do you really think I give a shit how old you are?�), inputting data off of illegible applications, handling retarded questions over the phone (“umm, yeah, I need to know the status of my application….I applied five months ago and no one has called me. I want to know when I can come in for an interview.�), and 5 million other things that are too painful/embarrassing to put into words.

2. Why is it that most of our “Superiors� write on a 4th grade level and could not pass a high school competency test? We’re not talking about just grammar and spelling here, people. We have lawyers, people who have earned their JD, that fail to impress us on any level. We might not know which Superior Court case created the Miranda rights (that’s a lie, we do), but we would expect a certain amount of eloquence in speech and writing.

3. We are so important and vital to the operation of the HR department that one of us must be present, at all times, so that we can do important tasks…like making copies and looking for irrelevant faxes. These are things, you understand, which cannot be accomplished alone.

4. Our favorite part about working here is the sympathy we receive from our co-workers. “You guys do SO MUCH.� “I don’t know what we would do without you ladies around here.� “I have always believed that you should be paid more.� But then there’s the flip side, where they go behind our backs and bitch to our manager. Who, by the way, does jack shit all day long. She only comes out of her office to complain, to our faces, that “someone really needs to get a handle on these faxes.� or “I wish people would just do their jobs right the first time.� Umm, excuse me? I’m sorry, is this coming from the person whose daughter is best friends with our VP’s daughter?

We do a lot of shit for these people, which is our job we guess. However, each day our pile of shit grows, along with the amount of complaints we hear. We are only two people. Two people (who can run circles around you on your best day) and you are fucking lucky that we put up with all your shit.