Stella Colter

In the grand scheme……

In the grand scheme of things, there are three things that piss me off.

1. Eating makes you fat.

2. Wrinkle creams don’t work.

3. Being “the shit” means you get SHIT piled upon you.

Okay, I fully recognize that eating in general does not HAVE to make you fat. It only makes me fat. ME. I get fat. When I eat. Let that sink in a bit. It does not matter what I eat – I get fat. My body hates me.  Shut up – I know full well that if I eat healthy, I’ll be healthy. Don’t judge me. Where is the balance really? I don’t like healthy food. I don’t want to eat only healthy food. I want to eat FOOD food.  You know, real food.  And thus, the fat. Fuck me!

On to wrinkle creams. What. The. Fuck.  Is getting all wrinkle-y and dried up really a requirement of being middle aged? I think not.  So why in the name of God don’t anti-wrinkle products work like they should? It’s like a cruel joke from the wrinkle Gods.  Fuck you, old ass – look old! Sigh. I think I have PMS.

So, the real topic of this post – #3.  See, when I started this non-existent blog which is read by only one person regularly (because she loves me), the premise behind it was to focus only on the corporate grind.  THAT is what good ol’ #3 is all about.  I’m the SHIT.  I am that person – the person who gets SHIT done.  The backlash of that is that I only get more SHIT handed to me.  Am I using the word SHIT too much? Is that even possible?

A very WISE person once said to me (like 20 minutes ago) that I should learn to say NO.  And she’s right.  She’s also the only mother fucker that reads this blog. Ironic? Maybe. Or not. I’m not even sure my brain can process irony properly, because I’m buried in SHIT.  Is there a Guiness record for using the word shit?

I’m not good at saying no. Unless you count in the bedroom.  TMI? Sorry.  See, I am a workaholic – I work, that’s what I do.  And when presented with a challenge, I take it.  And I kick its ass.  The issue is that when you are THAT person, they (they are the corporate nazis) keep piling it on.  Because they can.  And because they fully recognize that when you are THAT person, you just keep taking it.

There’s not really a point to this story.  Other than to say that in the grand scheme of thing, being pissed off is better than being pissed on.  Unless you ARE being pissed on.  In which case, you are basically getting fucked.  Unless you are fucking yourself. Which is like the weirdest case of masturbation in the workplace ever.

Honestly, I probably shouldn’t have even written this post. But I did – so move on.  PS – if you happen to have a legitimate wrinkle cream that works, speak up. I could use a silver lining.

I’m a f’ing superhero – who knew?

Every good superhero has enemies. In some cases, this person is everything that the superhero is not.  I’m no different. There is a short list of people that I consider my enemies.  I’m grateful the list is short.  I also wonder if I’ve made their list.  Yeah, likely.  Good news – I don’t give a shit.  Actually, I want to be on their list. That means they recognize that we do not mesh.

So, yesterday, on an outing with mi familia, I happened upon one of these said evil people.  Please note that I have in fact killed her at least 20 times in my head, so I was a little shocked to see her alive and well.  I also was thrilled to see that she’s still a fat ass.  Yes, I’m petty.  It’s the little things, right? But, I digress.  As mentioned, I was with my family, so as the thoughts ran through my head of what weapons  might be handy so that I could attack, it dawned on me that I needed to use my LEAST used super power – self restraint.  And then I walked away.

WHAT? ME? Holy shit – I am a fucking superhero! I never believed that I could restrain myself with such grace.  Granted, it wasn’t that hard since she avoided me as well.  Had she chose to approach, I’m fairly certain things would have gone badly.  After all, I’m a superhero but I really am ONLY human.  I know myself well enough to know that had she pushed my buttons, I would have been fully prepared to fight.

Let me add a disclaimer here – I am NOT a violent person.  When I say fight, I don’t mean throwing punches.  Double disclaimer – I totally will throw a punch if pushed to it, but that’s not my starting point.  Why do I feel as if this is not convincing? Sigh.  I’m sassy, I’m hot tempered, but really, I’m not mean.  I don’t want to hurt someone.  BUT, I don’t back down and I am NOT easily intimidated.  Oh, and I’m huge – that always helps.

So, I walked away. She left quietly, and my kids never knew that mommy was a homicidial maniac in her head.  I wonder if things would have been different had I not been with my family?  I wonder what might happen if I run into her alone – just me and her, in a dark alley? Batman and Joker. Superman and Lex Luther. Donald Trump and Rosie O’Donnell.  I don’t know what will happen, I just know that I will win.  The good guy always does, right?

I learned one other thing about myself from this encounter – seeing her did not effect me negatively.  It did not simmer in my thoughts, I did not dwell on it, and I lost no sleep.  THAT is a super power that comes with age.  When you know  you are right, you really do not care that other people are assholes.  You don’t waste your energy on little people with little minds.  You know that they have no control over you.  That is a big deal.  I haven’t enjoyed getting “old” but this is one perk that I’m glad came with the wrinkles.  I have enemies, and I don’t care.  Because I am confident in who I am, and they aren’t worth my time.

A dear friend says to me from time to time, “don’t let people steal your joy”.  She’s smart.  And right.  Excuse me while I go hang up my cape.

Protect Your Genitals

Guess what? It’s almost 2013. You know what that means don’t you? It’s time for New Year’s Resolutions.

First, a little history lesson (I got this off the internet, so it MUST be true): The tradition of the New Year’s Resolutions goes all the way back to 153 B.C. The Romans named the first month of the year after Janus, the god of beginnings and the guardian of doors and entrances. He was always depicted with two faces, one on the front of his head and one on the back. Thus he could look backward and forward at the same time. At midnight on December 31, the Romans imagined Janus looking back at the old year and forward to the new.

So, the basis of making a resolution spurns from being two faced? Way to use irony to make a point, Internet.

In the spirit of looking back, and then looking forward, I’m resigned to resolutions which, when looked back upon at the end of 2013 will make me look forward to an even better 2014.  Confused? In summary, there’s a lot of looking back and forward and back and forward, and now my neck hurts.

Before I tell you my resolutions, I respectfully point out that these are MY resolutions and you cannot have them.  Yes, they are awesome and yes, you are going to wish you thought of them, and yes, you might consider stealing them and making them yours.  This paragraph is written to protect my resolutions as mine and mine alone, so if you decide to take one of them then you better lawyer up because I’m coming after you.  It’s called copyright laws, people – look it up.  *side note – I’m actually WAY too lazy to protect my resolutions with copyrights, but I’m big, mean and prone to violence.

Resolution #1: Take time EVERY day to do at least one stress relieving activity.  That sentence may or may not be code for “drink a beer”.  I will neither confirm nor deny that. The goal is simply this – I’ll be making sure that stress does not kick my ass. I recognize that I will be stressed.  Stress is a jerk and he will not rule my day.  At some point, each and every day, I will do something which will lessen my stress level.  My short list of activities includes hugs, reading, writing, and a hot bath.  Realistically, we all know that beer should be on that list, but I didn’t feel that it had to be included because it basically goes without saying. Duh.

Resolution #2: Speak my mind.  How many of you read that one and said “WTH? You already do that!” Well, you have NO IDEA how many things I keep to myself.  Believe it or not, I keep my mouth shut a lot. Shocking, right? Here’s the thing – I filter more than you would ever believe. I refrain from telling people when I disagree with them quite often, and the only reason I choose to do that is because I often think my opinion doesn’t matter.  I’ve always been a “live and let live” kind of gal.  So, my goal with this one is to pick and choose the important moments when my opinion does matter, and share it respectfully. I vow not to care if anyone agrees with me – I really just want to remind myself that I have a voice and it is just as important as someone else’s voice. It may also be a great way to tell people when they are being stupid. So, there’s that.

Resolution #3: Look for the sunny side, and if I can’t find it, grab a flashlight.  I hope you are sitting down when you read this confession – I am NOT always the most “positive” person.  No really, I’m kind of crabby.  With this resolution, I’m pledging to find something positive in every situation which “brings me down”. This one won’t be easy and it might not be fun, but I’ll do it anyway. Oh, I’m sure I’ll still be a crabby bitch so don’t you worry (I know that’s what most of you love about me) but I WILL find a way to put a positive spin on the most awkwardly less than positive situations.  It’s likely that I’ll use “well, at least I didn’t go to jail” more than once.  Unless I do go to jail – save bail money just in case.

Resolution #4 (last one): Find a less violent “catch phrase”.  You may have noticed that I used “karate chop to the jugular” quite a bit in 2012.  I realize that this may be perceived as a bit harsh. You should know that I don’t ACTUALLY know karate, so the likelihood of me being able to execute an effective karate chop to the jugular is slim. I haven’t settled on my new mantra.  A few I’m considering are: a sharp thump to the genitals, a thousand lashes with a dead rat or a pinch to the nipple with rusty pliers on a cold day.  Since two of the three of these involve inappropriate body part touching, I’ll probably go with the second one although it’s less believable because I’m more likely to touch you inappropriately than to touch a dead rat.  Protect your genitals just in case.

Happy New Year, peeps!

My GPS is broken

Okay, first – I started this blog at the request (badgering) of a friend, and for a while I felt like I was talking to myself (which I was – which is okay except that it proves that I’m weird because I just said that it was okay, and because people who talk to themselves are weird, unless they are in solitary confinement in prison and then it’s just required), and then today I felt a little “inspired” and decide to converse with myself and HOLY SHIT, I come here and find that someone actually viewed my blog.  WTF? So, now I’m freaking out a little, because NOW I don’t really feel like I’m talking to myself – I feel like I’m talking to YOU, only I don’t know who you are, so it’s like there are people evesdropping on me and I’m cool with it. Okay, I AM weird.

Now, on to the inspiration.  See, I titled my blog the way I did, because at some point after I turned *cough cough* 40 *cough cough*, I found that every time someone told me to take the “high road”, I wanted to karate chop them in the jugular.  If I’m being honest, I normally refer to the road I’m  on now as the Fuck You Highway, but I figured I’d tame it down in case someone wanted to google search me.  Okay, to be completely honest, it was in case my MOTHER decided to google search me.  Whatever.

So, this past week, I’ve been hauling ass down Fuck You Highway.  I think I actually even made up a few curse words along the way to hurl at people who pissed me off.  I’ve completely lost my filter.  My mouth opens and the shit that is in my head comes out before I can stop it.  And I lose zero sleep as a result.  When I was younger, I chose my words carefully.  Now, my words chose to come out and out and out.

Here’s the thing – I can’t even FIND the High Road anymore.  My GPS must be broken.  OR, I’m finally finding me.  I choose to think the latter is more accurate.  Let me clarify, I don’t attack people who are not deserving.  I don’t stomp on kittens or make fun of fat people.  I’m not mean.  Okay, that last part may not be true.  I could be a little mean, but I’m not a “mean girl”.  I don’t ever just lash out at someone.  What I do, is never hesitate to tell someone when they are being a total idiot.

I won’t give you the gory details into what exactly spiraled me into this abyss of “fuck you’s”, but I will tell you this.  I am a mother.  If you are one of these too, then you get it.  Hurt my kid and face my wrath.  So that’s what took me there, and now that I am there, I’m there to stay.  I also blame PMS.  But why not? PMS deserves at least some of the credit – unless you are a guy then SUCK IT because you don’t have ovaries.

Is there a point here?  YES (sort of).  My point is that I am not the least bit ashamed of my ability to stand up for what I believe in, to go toe to toe with a douchebag who deserves it, or to tell someone to their face that they suck.  I don’t do it behind their back, they don’t have to question where I stand, and you can bet your ass they will know what I think.  Because although I could look down on them from the High Road, I chose to be eye to eye with them.  Right here on the Fuck You Highway.  Traffic is terrible here.

I’m my father’s daughter

This one goes out to my Daddy, who by the way does not know about this blog because frankly he would not appreciate my potty mouth and even though I am grown, I’m still a bit scared of him.

My Daddy made me who I am today.  Let me say, I do have a little of my mom in me.  This is proven by the fact that I have not yet stabbed anyone with a fork, been arrested for general mayhem, or otherwise gotten in any major trouble.  Not that my Daddy has done any of that, but he is a genuine badass, so I credit her for keeping him in line as well.

My Daddy taught me at an early age that I could do anything. The day I was born, he called friends and family to tell them that they had “another damn girl”.  See, I have a brother who is only 15 months older than me, and Daddy had dreams of his sons playing football together – I think he thought we would be Peyton and Eli Manning.  As it turns out, my brother never played football – he played the guitar, and that’s okay too except that the Manning brothers are rich and famous and we are not.

At any rate, it didn’t take long for Daddy to embrace my gender, and then he basically decided that just becuase I was a girl did not mean I had to BE a girl.  So he reminded me frequently to forget that.  He showed me that I could get what I wanted in this lfe without being held back by being female.  He made me tough.  He taught me TONS. And he supported me always.  The only thing he didn’t do is remind society that they should pay me like they pay the boys – that part still sucks.

My Daddy is my hero.  He is honest – a handshake deal means something with him.  He is straight forward -if you want to know what he thinks, just ask him.  He is fair – he could care less if you are black, white, skinny, fat, old, young or Lindsey Lohan.  He treats everyone the same.  He holds people accountable, he expects people to act appropriately, and he will jerk a knot in their ass if they don’t.  He is amazing.  And he’s mine.  And I love him.

If I do nothing else in this world, I want to be remembered as his daughter – a mirror image of the man he is.  Oh, and I wouldn’t mind hanging out with the Manning brothers - I hear their dad is cool too, so we probably have a LOT in common.

The 3 beer rule

Never make any major decisions after three beers.  Free advice.  You’re welcome.

Seriously, it is during or around beer number three, that you begin to feel that you can in fact solve the world’s problems.  Heed my warning – don’t do it.  Chances are, you won’t solve shit.

There is a remote chance that you are in fact smarter after three beers – which means that the sober you is a real wishy washy sap sucker.  If that is you, then drink up and speak up.  Since that is unlikely, then listen to me – don’t do it.

Don’t pay bills, don’t answer emails, don’t blog – none of this should be done after three beers.  (Writer’s note: Do as I say, not as I do)

I recognize that this blog (if you really want to call it that) has absolutely NO theme, does not flow well and in general has no value whatsoever.  BUT, given the fact that at this point not one single motherfucker is reading it, what does it matter?

I’m sure when I started this post, I had a point.  But I’ve just finished my third beer, so I have no idea what that point might have been.

I’ll end with this – if you could measure shitty week’s by the number of beers you have had, then my week was basically the zombie apocalypse.  And after three beers, I had to look up the correct spelling of apocalypse.  Don’t judge me.

F-you, I’m old school

You know you are officially old, when you embrace being “old school”.  Dude – old school is the way to go.  Sometimes I feel like a real old geezer when dealing with today’s young people.  And by “young people”, I don’t mean kids.  I mean these fuck ups who we mature adults are forced to work with.  These straight out of school, twenty something slackers who think that the 4 years they spent in college slamming back jello shots with the frat boys actually mean they are qualified for real work.

Okay, granted – stay in school kids, a degree is great, study hard, do something with your life. Blah, blah, blah.  BUT while you are at it – expect to fucking work! What the hell is it with these people? It is WORK.  If it was supposed to be fun, it would be called sex.  It’s work – that means you have to, wait for it……. WORK.

I cannot tell you how many times in a day I have to explain to people WHY they have to do something.  Does no one actually teach problem solving? Is there an APP for that? Jeez! And it’s never the adult woman who spent 20 years in a sewing factory slaving like a 10 year old kid in a Vietnam sweat shop.  It’s always that 25 year old douchebag who skirted through college to get a 4 year degree in some random field of study that has absolutely nothing to do with the job they are doing.

They did not take a class called “Going to Work 101″.  They did not take a class called “Do What Your Boss Tells You To JUST BECAUSE”.  They did not take a class called “It’s Called Work for a Fucking Reason”.  Nope – they have no clue.  BUT, they sit there in their interview and say things like “I just need someone to give me a chance to show what I’m made of”.  Turns out they are made of “not shit” because that’s exactly what they do all day.

Well, I’m from the old school of management.  I tell you what to do, I expect you to do it, and when you do not, I call BULLSHIT.  And they are shocked.  Shocked, I say.  It’s like no one has ever done that to them before.  Don’t these people have parents? Never in their life has anyone ever held them accountable.  So they whine.  And they complain.  And they slack.  And they whine some more.  It’s like I’ve hired that little girl from Willy Wonka – Daddy, I want an Oompa Loompa NOW.

Well, F-you, Veruca Salt – you’re fired.  Grow the hell up and learn to work.  OR marry well.

Take me to your leader

SO, you want to be a leader.  There are several different levels of leadership, and  many ways to accomplish this task.  Holy shit – that is the most boring blog opening ever! No zing, no humor, no pizzazz.  Wait, I just realized that I’m not sure how to spell “pizzazz”.  Oh well, you know phoenetics,right?

Let me start over: Two leaders walked into a bar….. forget it, I’m trying to hard.  Let’s just get real.  Some people are leaders and some people are not.  Some leaders are great at it, and some suck.  Great or sucky, a leader still leads and a follower still follows.  Granted, some skills are born with us – part of our core being before we learn to wipe our own ass.  Some skills are learned, and perfected, until the point that you are such a great leader that you don’t even know you are leading until you look behind you and see the herd of people following you.  Sort of like Forrest Gump when he was running, only with less facial hair.

I wasn’t always a leader.  At least, I didn’t think I was.  Somewhere around puberty, I came into my inner leader – I’m pretty sure learning to use tampons had something to do with that.  There is something empowering about plugging your nether regions with cotton.  Okay, that’s not true.  I did at some point figure out that I wasn’t exactly a follower, and I didn’t want to be a follower, so I must have chosen leader by default.  Just call me an accidental leader.

Today, I was reminded of two things.  One – sometimes to lead someone, you have to first walk in their shoes.  I have big feet, so that’s not always comfortable.  That is both a fact and a metaphor.  Two – to teach someone to lead, you have to allow them to follow you.  The first is much easier than the second.  Mostly because anyone who really cares about being a leader, actually WANTS to walk in someone else’s shoes.  Letting someone follow you is harder because you have to stay on your game.  You have to be spot on, you can’t slack even for a second, otherwise you will pass your slackerness (yes, that’s a word) to the person following you.  And then you have taught them nothing.  By the way, slackerness is not a word, and you are very gullible.

Teach what you want learned, lead the way you want to be led, and when you plan to run across the country for no reason at all, take a razor with you.

PS – blogging when you have no audience is like masturbating with a laptop.  For THAT mental image, you are welcome.

The End, or the beginning?

Why is it that people are all TGIF? Okay, I get that most people end their work week on a Friday, BUT so what? Are we all SO miserable at work that all we want to do is countdown until we get off on Friday evening?

Uh, YEAH.  In general, people do not love their jobs.  Some of us like our jobs, but we wish we were doing anything but that the bulk of the time.  The thing is, what if Friday was not the end of the week? What if it was the beginning? YIKES – full body shiver!

The truth is, Friday is just another day.  Unless you are Donald Trump or Oprah, you have work to do on the weekend too.  Are you really that excited about washing clothes, mowing the yard, cleaning toilets?  No – you are just programmed to consider THAT work part of your life rather than a job.  But think about it – you don’t get paid for THAT work.  Yet you are happily going home to it while celebrating leaving the one job that actually writes you a check.

Friday is the beginning of a thankless, unpaying job.  TGIF? No way – TGIM, pay me, bitches.

microMANage

I may have already established the fact that I don’t have a penis. Does that make me sound like a disgruntaled, ball busting female? Great!  Just so no one is confused.

So listen up, women, because I’m going to clue you in here. NO ONE likes to be micro-managed, but MEN are way less likely to be the butt of this business practice.  Why? Because men don’t tend to tell other men how to do things.  Just like they don’t ask for directions, it is an unspoken rule that they don’t give each other direction.  Unless they are in the military, then all bets are off.

Overcoming being micro-managed is about as easy as pulling ticks off a rabid wolf.  Not that I’ve ever done that, but I’m pretty sure it sucks.  You get it, right? The thing is, there is a fine line between being a manager, and being a micro-manager.  There is equally a fine line between people who NEED to be micro-managed compared to people who are perfectly capable of taking care of business.  A good manager recognizes this line.  To a bad manager, the line is invisible.  Still with me?

The scenario is this: Corporate America Male is in the big office on the corner, raking in the dough.  Corporate America Female is in a slightly smaller office with no view, working her ass off to make a reasonable salary while making Corporate America Male look good.  99% of the time, that dynamic works, but 1% of the time, Corporate America Male remembers he has a penis and therefore he needs to tell Corporate America Female how to do her job.  The job that she knows inside and out.  The job that he’s trusted her to do day in and day out while he plays golf with the CEO.  So, he micro-manages, throws his weight around a bit, and he is WRONG.  Now what?

Now is when I tell you that I don’t have all the answers.  If you haven’t already figured that out, then consider that I started this post by reminding you I don’t have a penis.  Sane people don’t normally discuss their genitals in the first few minutes of conversation.  Unless they are in the porn industry, then it’s totally appropriate.

I can tell you this, though.  Penis or not (yes, I just said penis again – get over it), if you want to make it in this ol’ world, you have to be willing to call bullshit.  There is not a rule that says you can’t be honest.  Of course, that doesn’t mean you won’t have to continue along the path of “just do what I told you to do and shut up”, but at least you will do so without the weight of that ton of bricks on your chest. I’m a firm believer in speaking your mind.  Appropriately, of course – don’t actually speak your mind if what is on your  mind is “Fuck you, boss man”.  That often loses something in translation.  Be willing to stand up and say what you think, use data or other tools to prove your point, and hope that you are heard.  Be prepared to NOT be heard, and be equally prepared to be disappointed.  At the end of it, you may be stuck in the middle of micro-manage hell, but you won’t be on fire.

Oh yeah, and one more thing – document and be prepared to point out WHO made the final decision if/when that shit gets all fucked up.  Stick it to the microMANager!