Get Ready, Everybody: It’s Time for a Manda-rant! (The G-Rated Version)

I work a lot. I could work every waking second of every day for 3 straight months and still have more work to do. So when I tell you that I don’t have time for you to flib-flab around, know that I mean it. Oh, did I also mention that I am sick of being nice. What I mean to say is that I am tired of being nice for apparently no reason. I am nice and work my cushy-seat off to help people with whatever flim-flammery they need at that given moment to turn around and find. . . Lo! And Behold. . . more flimmer-flammeries for me to deal with. While we’re on the subject, I am also, and more importantly, sick of people using their nice words and telling me nice, pretty things when I don’t have the time to sit around imagining what a magical, phtootie fairy-world it would be if the pleasant praise you bestow on me turned into something tangible that I could foollooting use. So here is my new policy:

Don’t tell me that I am working too hard unless you are in the process of taking on the list of crazy students I have to call while pushing me, mint julep and tickets to the circus in hand, out of the office!

Don’t tell me that I should get out more unless you are going to exercise my dog while buying me a pair of pants that fit after which you are planning on making sure that I am able to get enough sleep to get up extra early to go to work since I didn’t stay late the night before.

Don’t tell me that I’m pretty unless you are going to kiss me or get me a date.

Don’t tell me how I should be doing more Lizanda/stand-up/blogging unless you have been able to give me one day, ONE day where I didn’t have to attend to something work-related. Then I might be able to think about something other than my job and will be able to come up with more inclusive jokes than, “Man, can you believe those guys with the GRE? I mean, I’m convinced that they must be getting their advice from the White House. No, seriously think about it? Who else do you know who doesn’t want to set a timetable?!” Or my ode to Yakov Smirnoff material, “I’m telling ya – if the MCAT students had to physically line up in order to get into the April test dates, that line would be longer than the lines for toilet paper we had in mother Russia – Heeehn!” Heeehn!” Heehn!!”

Don’t tell me I should be eating more unless you have found the magic de-stress potion that will bring my appetite and/or will-to-live back.

Don’t tell me how fantastic I am unless we are going to play slappy-time or pay me cash monies.

Don’t you dare tell me how attractive or wonderful my dog appears to be unless you have just made an appointment to personally take him to his next anal-squeezing. Don’t know when to schedule it? Don’t worry; it’s easy! It’s once a jesuspraise week.

Got it, folks? My mom once summed it up nicely when she said to me, “I don’t care about all your jibber-jabber – just do the phelgin’ dishes!”

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