Ladies and gentlemen, can we all just keep in mind that TERRORIST has THREE SYLLABLES. Three! Count ‘em: TERR-OR-IST. Not “terrist.” No.

No, no.

Despite what you may have heard on TV or the radio, there is no such thing as a “terrist.”

Even if you’re from Texas—there’s no such thing as a terrist! No! Such! Thing!

Have we got that straight? Now I don’t ever want to turn on the radio and hear anyone talking about terrists. Especially if they’re from Boston! Just because you work for the government, doesn’t mean you need to adopt a Southern drawl!

Also, while I’m complaining about semi-pointless things, NO. Since you asked. I do not want to check out my own groceries at the supermarket. I do not aspire to be a cashier! I haven’t spent months learning the codes for broccoli and organic pears or how to strategically place two items in each bag or where the bar code on a bag of Lays is! I have no desire to know these things! Why are you making me do your job and saying it’s a service to me? WHY? It’s quicker my ass! Do you know how long it takes the average consumer to find the goddamn code for chives? Oh, right, right—they’ll get faster. Why? Because people are learning to do a job you used to pay people to do! And now we have to do it ourselves! It’s not a goddamn service, ok? I’m tired. I worked all day. I go to the supermarket to get the over-caffeinated, too sweet and too salty products that give me that extra blood sugar spike I need to get through the day because I don’t get enough sleep because I’m too busy—checking out my own goddamn groceries! I don’t want to scan my own cheetos, ok? And I certainly don’t want the person in front of me to do it. Why why why are you making me do your job?

That’s not the only place it’s happening, either. Think about making travel arrangements. Used to be, you call up a travel agent, tell ‘em what you want, and they come back with a bunch of options. They knew the best airports, the best hotels, the best flights, and were there to help you book a different one when you got bumped. But now all these online companies offer us the great, liberating, cost-saving service of being our own travel agents. Yes, we get lower prices. But if you think you’re getting a lower price, all you’re really telling me is that your time is worth nothing.

This is why I’m so goddamn busy! If I’m not battling through two hours of moronic drivers to or from work, I’m checking out my own groceries, researching the best tickets, and eating cheetos! What ever happened to division of labor? Give me a husband who does the work and I’ll do the shopping. Why is it that everyone has to do both now? Why do I have to do my taxes? Why do I have to take out the trash? Why do I have to work for a living? Why do I have to have a career? Why? Why? Why?

Excuse me for a moment. I have to go get my cup of coffee.

Ok, back. Ah, nothing like a good shot of caffeine at 10 o’clock at night.

So I wrote an e-mail to Target yesterday. I said:

Dear Target, let me help you help me. I understand that you’re trying to offer everything I could possibly need or not need under one roof, Target—and I appreciate that. I like to be able to buy my milk where I buy my dress socks. It’s convenient. But seriously, Target, I do not have time to tramp all over your goddamn store in search of the cleaning agents section. Will it be next to sporting goods? Photography? Home furnishings? Who knows, Target, who knows. Certainly not I. But what I do know is that either you start handing out free pairs of walking shoes at the door, or you warn all the little old ladies in automatic wheelchair-shopping carts to watch the f*ck out. Because I am done, Target—done!—with wandering around your store for half an hour while all your employees hide behind L’il Miss thong underwear displays. YOU GOT THAT?

Then I told them they should put little maps at the end of every couple aisles. How genius is that! They are lucky they have a concerned consumer like me to help them get their heads out of their asses. I swear, one of these days I’m going to start shopping at locally owned, non-chain businesses.

But back to me being busy. Being busy makes me a bitch. And I really hate being a bitch except when it’s satisfying, so… Just kidding already! It’s never satisfying, ok? Don’t you remember that I’m chronically nice?

I have to say though: the honeymoon period with my job is over. Sure, I was enamored of it for a little while. “Infatuated” one might say. But after the initial glow wears off, there has to be something left to sustain the relationship. And I think our relationship may have lost its magic. It’s just not doing it for me anymore, ok? I’m not as attracted to it as I once was. Not that I’m superficial—but it hasn’t aged so well. In the month that I’ve known it.

Ah hell, am I just destined to be a job hopper? By the way. Megan? If you still read this? Can you please e-mail me your blog’s address? Because I am senile and forgot the name and you disabled your profile? Thanks.

I’m just not sure what it is that dulled the lustre of the former object of my affections. Maybe it began when I started calling it “the sure thing,” I dunno. Goddamnit, will I ever be happy?

Or maybe it’s the voluminous piles of crap they have laying around the office. Ok, no one ever accused me of being a neat freak, but it’s hard to concentrate when a pile of old mail is in danger of toppling over on your head. Everywhere I look—piles! Boxes! Random papers! Old magazines! Old competitors’ magazines! Muffins from last week! Desktop rock gardens! Layout sheets from 1997! There is no need for this magnitude of crap! Sometimes I have fantasies about coming in on a weekend and cleaning it all out. That’s how bad it is.

Speaking of crap—boy did I get the dirt on everyone in the office today! You always have to find the right person.

Ooh-ee. Did I hit the jackpot.

It seems I’m not the only person to notice the Irritated Gay Parachutist’s excessively irritated/-ing manner. Also, it’s been confirmed that the f*ck-me boot-wearing secretary (a.k.a. Vice President and boss’s wife) is an incurable chatterer, somewhat silly, and incredibly sweet. What do you do with a person like that? Do what they say, I guess. (She is the boss’s wife. And yeah, that’s the jackpot. I only work with 10 people, ok?)

Anyway, she’s on my good list because she lauded me the other day. Oh how I enjoy being lauded. Please, feel free to post laudatory comments at any time.

I feel so much better now. Perhaps the source of my doldrums was that I wasn’t complaining about it enough! Man, I am just too nice.