It's Friday!! T.G.I. F.R.I.Day!
I don't have to work for the next two days! Wahoo!
I don't have to sit in one spot and stare at a computer screen, trying desperately to entertain myself with current news stories and gossip! Whatawonderful hopefulday Friday is! Promise for the future! A resolution to the week! A break in the monotony of life, which comes 52 fucking times a year!! Thank you god for creating Friday!!!
It's 5:15. I'm going home... for the next 64 hours.
Fuck Yeah.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Yes, I came to work today. No, nothing happened.
I didn't do any work. No one said anything slightly amusing as to send me into a fit of internal laughter to where I just HAD to share it with someone. No one broke anything slightly amusing. There were no outlandish ties, or silly shoes. No one lashed out in a fit of flying obscenities or began staring at random spots on the wall, with no conscious knowledge of anything going on around them. There was nothing.
I just sat at my desk and gazed, longingly at the telephone to my right, and the computer in front of me, hoping that by some mysterious force, my telephone would spontaneously combust, and/or my computer screen implode.
But, alas, it didn't happen.
It's 5:15. I'm going home.
I didn't do any work. No one said anything slightly amusing as to send me into a fit of internal laughter to where I just HAD to share it with someone. No one broke anything slightly amusing. There were no outlandish ties, or silly shoes. No one lashed out in a fit of flying obscenities or began staring at random spots on the wall, with no conscious knowledge of anything going on around them. There was nothing.
I just sat at my desk and gazed, longingly at the telephone to my right, and the computer in front of me, hoping that by some mysterious force, my telephone would spontaneously combust, and/or my computer screen implode.
But, alas, it didn't happen.
It's 5:15. I'm going home.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Currently, a series of ailments (cyst on middle finger, growth on retina, broken-fuckin-elbows, inability to look down) have befallen our noble administrative and secretarial staff. Because of this the word "roam" has been taken out of my label, "roaming temp," and replaced with the word "fuck," as I am now in a semi-permanent position for the next three long weeks. This poses a problem for me, because there is not that much work for me to do, and more than that, there is nothing new for me to report on…At all.
In fact, this absolute vacuum of activity has lead me to accomplish the following tasks today:
1. looked up "Super Aids," and discovered that the New York Gay Scene is fueled by Crystal Meth and ranging super orgies (later I discovered that "Super AIDS" was a hoax, fueled no doubt by Republicans smoking Crystal Meth and participating in raging super-orgies);
2. looked at all the pictures of Brad Pitt and Angelina Joli in Africa together, postulated on their current relationship and came to the conclusion that I wish I had a sand bucket to play with right now;
3. ate two lunches for no reason, and thought about going for a third;
4. stood in the bathroom for awhile closely examining my face for imperfections, taking intermittent breaks when people would walk in, as to not look vein... or psychotic;
5. talked to my friend on my cell phone about the state of my never ending search for the perfect vacuum bag - likened it to a Seinfeld episode, then thought about writing a script;
6. read every article on CNN.com twice;
7. read my horoscope... twice (apparently the astral energies are shaking up my life... how exactly, I am not privy to yet);
8. read the Libra horoscope... twice... for no particular reason (If I were a Libra, I would have money problems today and a conflicting sense of self... which leads me to ask the question: doesn't everyone have money problems and a conflicted sense of self? Discuss.);
9. looked up pictures of the new pope, where it appears that he is donning devil horns. Photoshopped them all into one document and mass e-mailed it to my friends, under the title "All Hail the Dark One!";
10. played repeatedly with a magic-8-ball asking it, "am I going to get to leave early today," or "am I going to be rich in the future," or "am I going to someday do something fulfilling?!" or "is my headache going to go away!?!" it repeatedly responded with CHANCES AREN'T GOOD… I think it's broken.
It's 5:15. I'm going home.
In fact, this absolute vacuum of activity has lead me to accomplish the following tasks today:
1. looked up "Super Aids," and discovered that the New York Gay Scene is fueled by Crystal Meth and ranging super orgies (later I discovered that "Super AIDS" was a hoax, fueled no doubt by Republicans smoking Crystal Meth and participating in raging super-orgies);
2. looked at all the pictures of Brad Pitt and Angelina Joli in Africa together, postulated on their current relationship and came to the conclusion that I wish I had a sand bucket to play with right now;
3. ate two lunches for no reason, and thought about going for a third;
4. stood in the bathroom for awhile closely examining my face for imperfections, taking intermittent breaks when people would walk in, as to not look vein... or psychotic;
5. talked to my friend on my cell phone about the state of my never ending search for the perfect vacuum bag - likened it to a Seinfeld episode, then thought about writing a script;
6. read every article on CNN.com twice;
7. read my horoscope... twice (apparently the astral energies are shaking up my life... how exactly, I am not privy to yet);
8. read the Libra horoscope... twice... for no particular reason (If I were a Libra, I would have money problems today and a conflicting sense of self... which leads me to ask the question: doesn't everyone have money problems and a conflicted sense of self? Discuss.);
9. looked up pictures of the new pope, where it appears that he is donning devil horns. Photoshopped them all into one document and mass e-mailed it to my friends, under the title "All Hail the Dark One!";
10. played repeatedly with a magic-8-ball asking it, "am I going to get to leave early today," or "am I going to be rich in the future," or "am I going to someday do something fulfilling?!" or "is my headache going to go away!?!" it repeatedly responded with CHANCES AREN'T GOOD… I think it's broken.
It's 5:15. I'm going home.
Friday, April 22, 2005
The secretaries are fucking freaking out. Apparently, this weekend the apocalypse is coming to the building and rendering all locks on office doors and all computers completely useless for a time just long enough to completely fuck everything up, unless proper protocol is followed today.
These necessary formalities include, changing out all the keys to the offices in the building, and turning off all the power-strips to the partners and secretaries computers. We received new keys to the offices this morning, and they took the "old" keys away from us; though, perilously enough, the old locks still remain... (*dundundun...*)
To give you some back ground:
1. Secretaries have keys to all partners' offices.
2. Partner's never read e-mails concerning administrative tasks.
3. Partner's rely on their secretaries to do all administrative tasks, and read their e-mails for them.
4. Secretaries are very invested in partners' state of happiness and therefore will go fall into spontaneous epileptic fits and start speaking in tongues if there is the possibility that things won't go right for the partner if they are out of the office.
5. It is Friday night and all partners leave at around 3pm.
6. Partners lock their doors when they leave.
With all of these points added up we get a shit storm of frenzied horror sprinting around the halls because the secretaries realize, that with the locked doors, and their lack of keys to fit those doors, there are computers that are still on, via power-cords, inside the partners offices just sitting there, waiting to be deep fried in whatever Terminator-style-electrical-storm that is going to rain down hellfire on this building this weekend… and no one knows what to fucking do!!
I've been attempting to take a nap under my desk for the last 15 minutes and have been frequently awakened by the clucking of panic in the air. I don't really care what happens to the computers… they could all start playing non-stop-internet-porn on Monday, lose all office related documents, and start spewing endless pages of Rosie O'Donnell's blog simultaneously out of all of the printers in the office, and that would just make things more interesting for me.
These necessary formalities include, changing out all the keys to the offices in the building, and turning off all the power-strips to the partners and secretaries computers. We received new keys to the offices this morning, and they took the "old" keys away from us; though, perilously enough, the old locks still remain... (*dundundun...*)
To give you some back ground:
1. Secretaries have keys to all partners' offices.
2. Partner's never read e-mails concerning administrative tasks.
3. Partner's rely on their secretaries to do all administrative tasks, and read their e-mails for them.
4. Secretaries are very invested in partners' state of happiness and therefore will go fall into spontaneous epileptic fits and start speaking in tongues if there is the possibility that things won't go right for the partner if they are out of the office.
5. It is Friday night and all partners leave at around 3pm.
6. Partners lock their doors when they leave.
With all of these points added up we get a shit storm of frenzied horror sprinting around the halls because the secretaries realize, that with the locked doors, and their lack of keys to fit those doors, there are computers that are still on, via power-cords, inside the partners offices just sitting there, waiting to be deep fried in whatever Terminator-style-electrical-storm that is going to rain down hellfire on this building this weekend… and no one knows what to fucking do!!
I've been attempting to take a nap under my desk for the last 15 minutes and have been frequently awakened by the clucking of panic in the air. I don't really care what happens to the computers… they could all start playing non-stop-internet-porn on Monday, lose all office related documents, and start spewing endless pages of Rosie O'Donnell's blog simultaneously out of all of the printers in the office, and that would just make things more interesting for me.
There is a post-card tacked to a bulletin board in front of me. It has a picture of a feisty-female senior-citizen, donning a hot-pink wig, matching eye makeup, bright red lipstick, the vacant stare of the last days of life mixed with a heavy prescription of Vicodin, and a dialogue bubble which says, "We can LICK anything if we try!"
Yes. Yes it does.
Yes. Yes it does.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
After my little elbow ponderfercation with the other secretaries, we started to get into a conversation regarding embarrassing things that happen in public. One of the embarrassing things that was mentioned was getting your high-heel stuck in the little space between the elevator and the floor your on, when the elevator door is open.
I said, "yeah, totally, I hate it when I'm at a hotel, and I'm trying to leave gracefully, and that happens, it's so embarrassing…"
Do you think they're wondering what I do on my off-time?
Because I would.
It's 5:15. I'm going home.
I said, "yeah, totally, I hate it when I'm at a hotel, and I'm trying to leave gracefully, and that happens, it's so embarrassing…"
Do you think they're wondering what I do on my off-time?
Because I would.
It's 5:15. I'm going home.
As a few of us were gleefully discussing the series of events that could possibly lead up to someone breaking their elbow, let alone both of them, I came up with my own conclusions, which to me are much more interesting:
1. Your hands are full: a StarBucks Coffee in one and a Pastry in the other, and you would rather save them both than yourself.
2. You tripped while looking up, thinking that you could possibly grab onto the leaves above, or perhaps a cloud, instead of bracing yourself from the ground below.
3. You have a disease which makes you immune to having inherent natural reflexes to certain events, like kicking when the doctor taps your knee, flinching when someone claps in front of your face, or putting your hands out when you fall… instead of your elbows.
4. You have glass elbows, and when you fell you put your hands out, but both of them shattered under the pressure.
5. You have regular elbows, and when you fell you put your hands out, but the weight of your mammoth body was too much for them, and both of them "broke" under the pressure.
6. Elbows really aren't made for any kind of rigorous activity and it's a fucking miracle that more people don't break them all the time.
7. You were playing a game of jinx, after you and another secretary said the phrase "make a copy" at the same time, but instead of being silent, the punishment was to keep your hands elevated above your elbows at all times… and you are a staunch enforcer of the rules of jinx.
8. You ran straight at a wall, elbows exposed, in an attempt to get out of work for what I've heard is around six weeks. Mission Accomplished.
Whatever the cause is – which still at this point is an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, dancing with a conundrum, who just had sex with a cryptogram – it's gotta fuckin' suck.
1. Your hands are full: a StarBucks Coffee in one and a Pastry in the other, and you would rather save them both than yourself.
2. You tripped while looking up, thinking that you could possibly grab onto the leaves above, or perhaps a cloud, instead of bracing yourself from the ground below.
3. You have a disease which makes you immune to having inherent natural reflexes to certain events, like kicking when the doctor taps your knee, flinching when someone claps in front of your face, or putting your hands out when you fall… instead of your elbows.
4. You have glass elbows, and when you fell you put your hands out, but both of them shattered under the pressure.
5. You have regular elbows, and when you fell you put your hands out, but the weight of your mammoth body was too much for them, and both of them "broke" under the pressure.
6. Elbows really aren't made for any kind of rigorous activity and it's a fucking miracle that more people don't break them all the time.
7. You were playing a game of jinx, after you and another secretary said the phrase "make a copy" at the same time, but instead of being silent, the punishment was to keep your hands elevated above your elbows at all times… and you are a staunch enforcer of the rules of jinx.
8. You ran straight at a wall, elbows exposed, in an attempt to get out of work for what I've heard is around six weeks. Mission Accomplished.
Whatever the cause is – which still at this point is an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, dancing with a conundrum, who just had sex with a cryptogram – it's gotta fuckin' suck.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
The elevator is always a crapshoot for me. It has that awkward air of sitting next to someone on an airplane after you initiate conversation. If there are only two of you, and no other distractions, aren't you hesitant to engage the other in small-talk? Because, honestly, what if you run out of things to say? Then comes the inevitable awkward silence. I don't think so... not me... What do you expect me to do, stand there for the next thirty seconds looking at the floor-counter, waiting, WAITING, for my floor to come, as I shuffle my feet, and shoot sporadic and cumbersome smiles to the person I just tried to speek to… and now wish would just be the bigger man and get off the fucking elevator? No. Thank. You.
Or what if you know the person in the elevator that you are riding in, and then you are obligated to say something. Ha, Ha! Not always. Sometimes you both just sit there silent, ignoring the grossley obese pink elephant that is standing between you, taking up the other 2,480 pounds capacity.
These are all amusing situations that usually give me a rush better than a speedball on Christmas morning. But the best is overhearing conversations, while surreptitiously standing in the background.
Today, after incurring a brief silent stint with me, a guy, and that pink elephant, my companion and I were thankfully joined by two other people. The first is a woman so large, I fail to recognize how she walks through doors (we will call her "SoL"), and then an Older Gentleman ("OG").
SoL: Looking intently at OG, (dare I say drooling?) "That was so darn funny, don't you think?"
OG: "Yes, it was amusing to see her react like that…" He looks at his feet and begins to shuffle.
SoL: "I know it was HI-larious, she just loved it."
OG flashes that magically combersome smile...
SoL: "I mean, those were the most perfect key chains I ever saw…"
Stop. waitasecondnow.
Never mind that I didn't realize key chains could come in "perfect," but: I. Ever. Saw.
I ever saw? Taken completely by surprise at the numerous grammatical mishaps in the latter part of that sentence, I quickly exited the elevator and returned to my chair.
"I EVER SAW." I sat staring at a blank sheet of paper, my elbows resting on the top of my desk, my hands rubbing the temples of my head.
Okay. Let me just try and lay this one out: How do you say that the key chains you just happened to view in the last week or so were the most impeccable ones that you have ever encountered in your entire fucking life?? Because I know it's not "I ever saw."
Is it "I ever seen?"
Rubbing temples harder: "I have ever saw?… I had ever saw? … I have ever seen? … IS that appropriate?!?"
"I'd ever seen!" Yes. That sounds right. I. Had. Ever. Seen.
But, does that constitute speaking in the past tense? Because apparently she was witness to these god-like key chains in the recent past, which means that since then she could have happened upon EVEN more indefectible and sublime key chains, which she isn't mentioning. But if she hadn't since then, at this moment, shouldn't she say, "I have ever seen?"
O' My God. My brain is beginning to ooze out of my ears and soak into the computer keyboard.
It's 5:15. I'm going home.
Or what if you know the person in the elevator that you are riding in, and then you are obligated to say something. Ha, Ha! Not always. Sometimes you both just sit there silent, ignoring the grossley obese pink elephant that is standing between you, taking up the other 2,480 pounds capacity.
These are all amusing situations that usually give me a rush better than a speedball on Christmas morning. But the best is overhearing conversations, while surreptitiously standing in the background.
Today, after incurring a brief silent stint with me, a guy, and that pink elephant, my companion and I were thankfully joined by two other people. The first is a woman so large, I fail to recognize how she walks through doors (we will call her "SoL"), and then an Older Gentleman ("OG").
SoL: Looking intently at OG, (dare I say drooling?) "That was so darn funny, don't you think?"
OG: "Yes, it was amusing to see her react like that…" He looks at his feet and begins to shuffle.
SoL: "I know it was HI-larious, she just loved it."
OG flashes that magically combersome smile...
SoL: "I mean, those were the most perfect key chains I ever saw…"
Stop. waitasecondnow.
Never mind that I didn't realize key chains could come in "perfect," but: I. Ever. Saw.
I ever saw? Taken completely by surprise at the numerous grammatical mishaps in the latter part of that sentence, I quickly exited the elevator and returned to my chair.
"I EVER SAW." I sat staring at a blank sheet of paper, my elbows resting on the top of my desk, my hands rubbing the temples of my head.
Okay. Let me just try and lay this one out: How do you say that the key chains you just happened to view in the last week or so were the most impeccable ones that you have ever encountered in your entire fucking life?? Because I know it's not "I ever saw."
Is it "I ever seen?"
Rubbing temples harder: "I have ever saw?… I had ever saw? … I have ever seen? … IS that appropriate?!?"
"I'd ever seen!" Yes. That sounds right. I. Had. Ever. Seen.
But, does that constitute speaking in the past tense? Because apparently she was witness to these god-like key chains in the recent past, which means that since then she could have happened upon EVEN more indefectible and sublime key chains, which she isn't mentioning. But if she hadn't since then, at this moment, shouldn't she say, "I have ever seen?"
O' My God. My brain is beginning to ooze out of my ears and soak into the computer keyboard.
It's 5:15. I'm going home.
So, I've been sick for the last two days… no, no, really I have.
And the thing with never being sick (please refer to Friday, April 8) is when I do actually get sick, I think I'm dying via sever-sucking-lesions of Melanoma munching at my skin, while I've three leaches that have crawled up my nose, and are now feeding on my brain, and I've just been leveled by electric shocks as to send my muscles into an early stage of atrophy.
And I let everyone know. Everyone.
Especially the people I work with when I come back.
Sniffing. Red-nose. Watery-eyes. Gravely-voice.
"Hard Weekend?" asks Person Who Knows Me Too Well.
"No!" (offense unwarranted and probably over exaggerated.)
"I'm sick." Pout.
(and just for good measure) *Sniff*
And the thing with never being sick (please refer to Friday, April 8) is when I do actually get sick, I think I'm dying via sever-sucking-lesions of Melanoma munching at my skin, while I've three leaches that have crawled up my nose, and are now feeding on my brain, and I've just been leveled by electric shocks as to send my muscles into an early stage of atrophy.
And I let everyone know. Everyone.
Especially the people I work with when I come back.
Sniffing. Red-nose. Watery-eyes. Gravely-voice.
"Hard Weekend?" asks Person Who Knows Me Too Well.
"No!" (offense unwarranted and probably over exaggerated.)
"I'm sick." Pout.
(and just for good measure) *Sniff*
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Monday, April 18, 2005
Friday, April 15, 2005
The Smiley Faces are watching me.
1. Right in front of me: a large Smiley Face is peeking out from behind the computer screen. All I can see is the top of its yellow, bulbous head, and its black, vacant eyes – it's staring directly at me.
2. File separator to my right: there is a postcard which reads "Don't worry, be happy" with a Smiley Face stuck to the outside. It too is ogling me to my soul, but more than that, it's telling me not to worry… which at this point, isn't really an option.
3. Picture frame to my left: it holds a picture of a little league baseball team. There are four Smiley Faces (one for each corner) arranged at a slight angle, as if to convey empathy or concern; their troublesome smiley expressions surveying my every move.
4. Behind me: a calendar with a picture of a family standing in front of an obscure body of water. There are two woman, two children, a baby, and a Smiley Face stuck over what was once a man's head. The caption reads: Christina, Smiley, Daniel, Noelle and William - 2004 (the word Smiley has been cut out and pasted over the man's name). That Smiley Face, too, is boring a hole through the back of my skull with its beady little eyes.
Obviously, that's exactly what the man was doing to the woman who sits here, hence the need for decapitation via Smiley Face.
It's 5:15. I'm going home.
1. Right in front of me: a large Smiley Face is peeking out from behind the computer screen. All I can see is the top of its yellow, bulbous head, and its black, vacant eyes – it's staring directly at me.
2. File separator to my right: there is a postcard which reads "Don't worry, be happy" with a Smiley Face stuck to the outside. It too is ogling me to my soul, but more than that, it's telling me not to worry… which at this point, isn't really an option.
3. Picture frame to my left: it holds a picture of a little league baseball team. There are four Smiley Faces (one for each corner) arranged at a slight angle, as if to convey empathy or concern; their troublesome smiley expressions surveying my every move.
4. Behind me: a calendar with a picture of a family standing in front of an obscure body of water. There are two woman, two children, a baby, and a Smiley Face stuck over what was once a man's head. The caption reads: Christina, Smiley, Daniel, Noelle and William - 2004 (the word Smiley has been cut out and pasted over the man's name). That Smiley Face, too, is boring a hole through the back of my skull with its beady little eyes.
Obviously, that's exactly what the man was doing to the woman who sits here, hence the need for decapitation via Smiley Face.
It's 5:15. I'm going home.
There is a partner around the corner from where I'm sitting, who is wearing an Orange I-should-be-directing-traffic-or-landing-large-jets-on-an-aircraft-carrier-with-this-thing Tie. It's so distracting that when he walks down the hall, each person stops-dead in the middle of what they are doing to stare at him and assess whether they should comment on it. Interestingly enough, no one has yet.
But I know everyone wants to…
But I know everyone wants to…
One of my personal favorite games to play is, "I was born in…" And, then watch the recipient of that knowledge dash off to contemplate their own mortality, while sucking on a can of compressed air. I use this at times, like this morning, when I cannot comprehend my own name, let alone a two-way conversation about… whatever (please refer to Wednesday morning for explanation). And, since this game will only work for a little while longer, I'm trying to get as much use out of it as I can:
Greyhound Fan stopped by my desk a little while ago. Apparently, I remind her of someone that she knew a long time ago, who was married to the lead singer of a band called War,
GF: "I don't know if you remember them, it might be a little before your time. War was an offshoot, of like, the Monday's, who were really big when Tramline was touring, and I guess they sound a little like the Sounders - "
Temp: "I was born in 1980…"
GF: "Oh, God…," she says, with the blank stare of a Greyhound in headlights, "My step kids were born in the 60s." Then she slowly backs away.
Mission complete.
Greyhound Fan stopped by my desk a little while ago. Apparently, I remind her of someone that she knew a long time ago, who was married to the lead singer of a band called War,
GF: "I don't know if you remember them, it might be a little before your time. War was an offshoot, of like, the Monday's, who were really big when Tramline was touring, and I guess they sound a little like the Sounders - "
Temp: "I was born in 1980…"
GF: "Oh, God…," she says, with the blank stare of a Greyhound in headlights, "My step kids were born in the 60s." Then she slowly backs away.
Mission complete.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
I was moved to a new floor today to cover "overflow" in case anyone needs me. No one does. There is absolutely no work for me to do and almost no one on the floor, except for a woman around the corner who has a picture-collage of different Greyhound-doggies. She rescues Greyhounds from racetracks after they retire. We've been talking about Greyhounds for the last half-an-hour. She knows a helluvalot about Greyhounds.
She looks exactly like a Greyhound.
It's the little things that keep me going.
She looks exactly like a Greyhound.
It's the little things that keep me going.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
The woman next to me is kind of freaking me out.
After this morning’s slight amusement of her incessant need to show me exactly where everything is, for example:
1. Temp: “Where is the Kitchen?” to which she replies, “Oh, it’s just… well, let me show you…” subsequently we walk across the three foot hall, and through the door that reads "kitchen" into the Kitchen. Viola.
2. Or, “um…where is the copy room?” Instead of responding, “well, it’s exactly where it is on every floor,” which would have suited me just fine, I get “Oh, it’s… well, let me show you,” and I find that it’s exactly where I thought it would be; in fact, I really don’t know why I asked. Voila.
3. and finally in a manic display of benevolence, she offers, “Oh, here is the women’s bathroom and the men’s bathroom, and here is the coffee in the kitchen, and some forks if you need them and the paper toweks are just over there,” exactly the way it is on every floor; "And I have M&Ms at my desk... if you want them." Got it… voila.
But, now, she is staring at a spot on her desk, where there doesn’t appear to be anything. I’ve asked her how to use the intercom three time now, yet she hasn't moved – her back to me and head slightly cocked.
“Carol?” I think that’s her name: that’s what it says on the little plaque by her desk.
“Carol? Um… how do you use the intercom on this phone?”
Nothing. “Carol?”
Nothing. I get up from my desk and peek around the other side of the small wall that separates us. Is she on the phone? I look. No phone. Just imaginary object of fascination on desk.
I return to my desk. I decide to ask the question a different way: “The intercom? how do you use it?” Nothing.
Alright. This is just silly.
“How would one use the intercom if one were so inclined?”
Nothing. I wait three seconds… “So, the intercom, um, how’s it work. The intercom here?” I stand up slightly and point to my phone.
She blinks from the focus of her concentration and slowly looks back; with an eerily-responsive tone, she says “you just press IC, then the number of the person you want to reach.”
Whoa. “Thanks." Slightly concerned, "It is Carol right?”
“Yep.” She points to her name plaque and then quickly returns to that spot on her desk.
For sanity’s sake, I’m just going to forget that happened.
After this morning’s slight amusement of her incessant need to show me exactly where everything is, for example:
1. Temp: “Where is the Kitchen?” to which she replies, “Oh, it’s just… well, let me show you…” subsequently we walk across the three foot hall, and through the door that reads "kitchen" into the Kitchen. Viola.
2. Or, “um…where is the copy room?” Instead of responding, “well, it’s exactly where it is on every floor,” which would have suited me just fine, I get “Oh, it’s… well, let me show you,” and I find that it’s exactly where I thought it would be; in fact, I really don’t know why I asked. Voila.
3. and finally in a manic display of benevolence, she offers, “Oh, here is the women’s bathroom and the men’s bathroom, and here is the coffee in the kitchen, and some forks if you need them and the paper toweks are just over there,” exactly the way it is on every floor; "And I have M&Ms at my desk... if you want them." Got it… voila.
But, now, she is staring at a spot on her desk, where there doesn’t appear to be anything. I’ve asked her how to use the intercom three time now, yet she hasn't moved – her back to me and head slightly cocked.
“Carol?” I think that’s her name: that’s what it says on the little plaque by her desk.
“Carol? Um… how do you use the intercom on this phone?”
Nothing. “Carol?”
Nothing. I get up from my desk and peek around the other side of the small wall that separates us. Is she on the phone? I look. No phone. Just imaginary object of fascination on desk.
I return to my desk. I decide to ask the question a different way: “The intercom? how do you use it?” Nothing.
Alright. This is just silly.
“How would one use the intercom if one were so inclined?”
Nothing. I wait three seconds… “So, the intercom, um, how’s it work. The intercom here?” I stand up slightly and point to my phone.
She blinks from the focus of her concentration and slowly looks back; with an eerily-responsive tone, she says “you just press IC, then the number of the person you want to reach.”
Whoa. “Thanks." Slightly concerned, "It is Carol right?”
“Yep.” She points to her name plaque and then quickly returns to that spot on her desk.
For sanity’s sake, I’m just going to forget that happened.
I have the uncanny ability to stay up until all hours of the night, every single night of the week, even though when I wake up in the morning, the first thing I think is, “tonight, I’m going home, and I’m going to make dinner, take a bath, and go to bed early.”
But, do I listen to myself? Nope.
I don't hear a Goddamned thing.
But, do I listen to myself? Nope.
I don't hear a Goddamned thing.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
There is a woman who works down the hall from the desk where I'm sitting today. This woman, we will call her TMI, chronically insists on sharing with me her most intimate of bodily functions. Though, of course, it's my own fault for initially opening the flood gates for this kind of information (pun unavoidable).
A few months ago, TMI was lounging like a Moomoo doning JavatheHut at her desk, sporting a noticeable grimace that usually elicits the question, "What's the matter?" Being the gullible-gus that I just happen to be, I fall right into the 10-foot-in-diameter-briar-bear-pit-surrounded-by-yellow-warning-tape-which-reads-"CERTAIN DEATH OR DISMEMBERMENT, STAY OUT!"-covered-only-in-a-light-vale-of-shrubbery Trap. The situation unfolded as follows:
Temp: "Oh, what's the matter?"
TMI: "My stomach" grimace, "is hurtin' me somthin' aweful..."
Tempers: Shit. That was more than I wanted to know… defiantly. "Oh, that sucks." Shit.
TMI: Grimace, grimace, wince "yeah, I've been havin' stomach problems all week, I'm going to the bathroom every twenty minutes and it's just flowin' right through me…"
Temp: Shit. Literally. I knew it. Why?!?!? Do people feel the need to share that type of thing?!? "Oh," feigned pang of sympathy, "That's awful?"
I walk away, my imagination riddled with the image of her current bowel movements and tri-hourly trip to the woman's bathroom.
NEXT SCENE:
About a month ago: TMI is walking slowly past my desk, holding her stomach again. AH! HaHA! I know better. I concentrate and keep my eyes focused straight ahead, scanning the current story concerning Mary-Kate Olsen, intently staring at the small computer screen as if to feign near-blindness. Doesn't work; she walks up to my desk. I quickly click on my Microsoft Word Icon to hide the gossip-blog and turn, wearily, to face my challenge. "Hey," then I offer the obligatory, "Howya doin?"
"Uh, my stomach, it's the opposite of the last time, honey; it's all stopped up in there and I can barely walk…"
LALaLALALALAlalalalalalala* I can't hear you! * LALALAlalalalala. Shit (or lack thereof). I.n.a.p.p.r.o.p.r.i.a.t.e. I return to my investigation of the thinner Olsen, and stare blankly at the computer screen for a good ten minutes, unable to feel the right side of my face.
JUST A MINUTE AGO:
TMI: Pops her puffy face in the side of my office as I'm checking my e-mail... again: "Do you have a pillow around here?"
ME: "Um, yeah, I think there is one back there somewhere," I return to examining my e-mail for the 20th time waiting desperately for someone to e-mail me, so I can be distracted for my last 5 minutes in the office.
TMI: "Oh, good, I need it for sittin'" then she points to her left, oversized, draped-in-purple-velvet, butt-cheek: "Boil."
Seriously? A boil on your ass? It's 5:15. I'm going home.
A few months ago, TMI was lounging like a Moomoo doning JavatheHut at her desk, sporting a noticeable grimace that usually elicits the question, "What's the matter?" Being the gullible-gus that I just happen to be, I fall right into the 10-foot-in-diameter-briar-bear-pit-surrounded-by-yellow-warning-tape-which-reads-"CERTAIN DEATH OR DISMEMBERMENT, STAY OUT!"-covered-only-in-a-light-vale-of-shrubbery Trap. The situation unfolded as follows:
Temp: "Oh, what's the matter?"
TMI: "My stomach" grimace, "is hurtin' me somthin' aweful..."
Tempers: Shit. That was more than I wanted to know… defiantly. "Oh, that sucks." Shit.
TMI: Grimace, grimace, wince "yeah, I've been havin' stomach problems all week, I'm going to the bathroom every twenty minutes and it's just flowin' right through me…"
Temp: Shit. Literally. I knew it. Why?!?!? Do people feel the need to share that type of thing?!? "Oh," feigned pang of sympathy, "That's awful?"
I walk away, my imagination riddled with the image of her current bowel movements and tri-hourly trip to the woman's bathroom.
NEXT SCENE:
About a month ago: TMI is walking slowly past my desk, holding her stomach again. AH! HaHA! I know better. I concentrate and keep my eyes focused straight ahead, scanning the current story concerning Mary-Kate Olsen, intently staring at the small computer screen as if to feign near-blindness. Doesn't work; she walks up to my desk. I quickly click on my Microsoft Word Icon to hide the gossip-blog and turn, wearily, to face my challenge. "Hey," then I offer the obligatory, "Howya doin?"
"Uh, my stomach, it's the opposite of the last time, honey; it's all stopped up in there and I can barely walk…"
LALaLALALALAlalalalalalala* I can't hear you! * LALALAlalalalala. Shit (or lack thereof). I.n.a.p.p.r.o.p.r.i.a.t.e. I return to my investigation of the thinner Olsen, and stare blankly at the computer screen for a good ten minutes, unable to feel the right side of my face.
JUST A MINUTE AGO:
TMI: Pops her puffy face in the side of my office as I'm checking my e-mail... again: "Do you have a pillow around here?"
ME: "Um, yeah, I think there is one back there somewhere," I return to examining my e-mail for the 20th time waiting desperately for someone to e-mail me, so I can be distracted for my last 5 minutes in the office.
TMI: "Oh, good, I need it for sittin'" then she points to her left, oversized, draped-in-purple-velvet, butt-cheek: "Boil."
Seriously? A boil on your ass? It's 5:15. I'm going home.
Woah! HolyFuckingShit. I've actually been working this morning, and MORE than that, I've been getting behind, because there is TOO much work for me to do! It's an anomaly far superior to my everyday delectable distractions.
Thus far I've typed, and copied and opened letters, and printed out papers to staple together into certain groupings of which at this point I cannot discern, and AND I booked a flight reservation to San FranMuthaFuckinCisco! I feel like a Ferret on Speed... and Acid.
Thus far I've typed, and copied and opened letters, and printed out papers to staple together into certain groupings of which at this point I cannot discern, and AND I booked a flight reservation to San FranMuthaFuckinCisco! I feel like a Ferret on Speed... and Acid.
Monday, April 11, 2005
My sunburn has turned into all consuming itchyness. So, in an obvious (to me) attempt to quell my irritation, I've begun to slap and pat the upper portion of my chest in order to stop myself from iching it. "Lithe" passed me by and asked in a slightly concerned tone, if I was alright. "Yes," I said, still patting, "it's just that now my burn has turned to complete ichyness and I'm trying to stop it." Pat, pat, slap, "It's really really itchy." Still patting/slapping, "Itchy!" She nodds her head, and then slowly backs away. I continue to slap and pat my skin alone in my cubical. It's 5:15. I'm going home.
Part way through the afternoon, I realize that if I could find a way to fake a sunburn, I could conceivably use "I have a really bad sunburn, and cannot come into work," as an excuse for missing a day. Most likely a Monday. This is exciting.
I have come to this riveting conclusion because I've been repeatedly asked, "How are you doing?" today, in the normal polite rues of conversation. And, I have responded with a slight grimace, followed by a whiny, "I have a sunburn." I don't know why I feel like sharing that fact (other than it's engrossing my every thought, as even standing in one place shoots searing, burn-pain all over the back of my body), but it's worked out for the best. Intriguingly, each person I tell comes to a complete halt of their daily goings-on to tell me volumes about their own worst sunburn stories, or the range in fairness of their skin, their ethnic background, whether their mothers/fathers/cousin's niece's daughter had skin cancer, how old they were when they first got a sunburn, what power of sun block they use, what power of sun block I should use, where they were when they got sunburned last, their friends' sunburn stories, what type of lotion I should use, what color they are when they get a sunburn, what color I look right now... And god love them, if they've actually had skin cancer, I get to see the scars.
This has been going on for hours now, and my theory is that if enough people can empathize with your affliction, then it has to make a great excuse. Unfortunately, I didn't think of that this morning (moronic-Monday be what it may), and this is why I am here… I am also here for the money, but that's beside the point.
I have come to this riveting conclusion because I've been repeatedly asked, "How are you doing?" today, in the normal polite rues of conversation. And, I have responded with a slight grimace, followed by a whiny, "I have a sunburn." I don't know why I feel like sharing that fact (other than it's engrossing my every thought, as even standing in one place shoots searing, burn-pain all over the back of my body), but it's worked out for the best. Intriguingly, each person I tell comes to a complete halt of their daily goings-on to tell me volumes about their own worst sunburn stories, or the range in fairness of their skin, their ethnic background, whether their mothers/fathers/cousin's niece's daughter had skin cancer, how old they were when they first got a sunburn, what power of sun block they use, what power of sun block I should use, where they were when they got sunburned last, their friends' sunburn stories, what type of lotion I should use, what color they are when they get a sunburn, what color I look right now... And god love them, if they've actually had skin cancer, I get to see the scars.
This has been going on for hours now, and my theory is that if enough people can empathize with your affliction, then it has to make a great excuse. Unfortunately, I didn't think of that this morning (moronic-Monday be what it may), and this is why I am here… I am also here for the money, but that's beside the point.
Is it freezing in this office, or is it just me? Though the office usually is cold enough to make an Eskimo feel hunky-fucking-dory, this time it might just be me. You see, this weekend I decided to bathe in reputable unintelligence and soak up the sun for 2 hours, thinking that, because it was early April, the sun could not possibly be at a strong enough intensity to administer the kind of burn that I'm now sporting. I am red, my clothes feel like sandpaper and I am shivering like a Chihuahua. Unhappy me.
AND, it's Monday. I'm freezing and it's Monday. I always have a special place in my heart for Monday's (usually it's next to the place where I keep the water chestnuts and Poison Ivy). The reason being, I am always a moron on Mondays for a variety of different excuses (didn't sleep all weekend, don't remember Sunday, jetlag, "Saturday night only happens once a week", "Com'on it's Friday, you don't have to work till Monday", "I'll just have one drink, then I'll be fine tomorrow"). M.O.R.O.N. Today, I am a moron because I woke up this morning after sleeping a good 12 to 14 hours last night, probably due to the sun-poisoning that I bestowed upon myself yesterday. Everything is foggy, and I haven't had a coherent thought yet. This makes it very difficult to act in an easy-going, intelligent manner. Even though, luckily, the partner I'm working for today still hasn't shown up, a few secretaries have tried to talk to me. This is uncomfortable for everyone involved.
SITUATION: I am approached by "Lithe," an insecure secretary who wants to introduce herself to me and make small-talk. I sit there, smile, and nod like a moron, unable to seamlessly carry the conversation from "Nice to meet you," to "(Anything else you can think of saying)." This makes for understandably awkward comedy. She stares at me, waiting for… something… then delivers an uncomfortable sentence like, "well, nice to see you at this desk," or "alright, um, if you need anything you know where to find me", or I say "yeah, I'm sure she'll be back tomorrow." She then resigns her attempt at friendly conversation and retreats back to the depths of her cubical from which she came.
It's like playing Connect-Four with a child who has ADD and Autism: you're nervous, but you convince yourself it's Childs play and "what's the worst that can happen, right?" Then in a fit of panic, and loud shrieking noises, the board gets broken in two, and you get a red-chip in your eye.
AND, it's Monday. I'm freezing and it's Monday. I always have a special place in my heart for Monday's (usually it's next to the place where I keep the water chestnuts and Poison Ivy). The reason being, I am always a moron on Mondays for a variety of different excuses (didn't sleep all weekend, don't remember Sunday, jetlag, "Saturday night only happens once a week", "Com'on it's Friday, you don't have to work till Monday", "I'll just have one drink, then I'll be fine tomorrow"). M.O.R.O.N. Today, I am a moron because I woke up this morning after sleeping a good 12 to 14 hours last night, probably due to the sun-poisoning that I bestowed upon myself yesterday. Everything is foggy, and I haven't had a coherent thought yet. This makes it very difficult to act in an easy-going, intelligent manner. Even though, luckily, the partner I'm working for today still hasn't shown up, a few secretaries have tried to talk to me. This is uncomfortable for everyone involved.
SITUATION: I am approached by "Lithe," an insecure secretary who wants to introduce herself to me and make small-talk. I sit there, smile, and nod like a moron, unable to seamlessly carry the conversation from "Nice to meet you," to "(Anything else you can think of saying)." This makes for understandably awkward comedy. She stares at me, waiting for… something… then delivers an uncomfortable sentence like, "well, nice to see you at this desk," or "alright, um, if you need anything you know where to find me", or I say "yeah, I'm sure she'll be back tomorrow." She then resigns her attempt at friendly conversation and retreats back to the depths of her cubical from which she came.
It's like playing Connect-Four with a child who has ADD and Autism: you're nervous, but you convince yourself it's Childs play and "what's the worst that can happen, right?" Then in a fit of panic, and loud shrieking noises, the board gets broken in two, and you get a red-chip in your eye.
Friday, April 08, 2005
All muthafuckin-hell broke loose today. I arrived this morning not feeling at my most perky, but trying to fake it … to myself … because if I could only fool myself, then maybe I can fool everyone else. Upon my arrival (10:15 a.m.) I discovery that the power in the entire building is off. Power's out. All. Of. It.
You see, this presents a very precarious position for me, because being a temp, I know everyone, yet, no one really knows me. But, they feel the need to make daunting small talk with me about… whatever. I, being in the legion of Secretaries, am supposed to make small talk with the secretaries. This, I cannot stand. However, the partners won't engage me in conversation, because they think I am a secretary and therefore have the IQ of a subservient chinchilla (they would never outright admit this, but fuckme if it's not true).
Scene: Partners and Secretaries, standing idly in the courtyard, smoking cigarettes and making their trips to the StarBucks to kill time until the building is resuscitated: partners talking to stuffy-haughty partners, secretaries talking to shabby-slouchy secretaries. And me, standing there like a sardonic, trench-coat donning, sunglass wearing, cigarette smoking, 5 year old who just got transferred into a different Kindergarten, and doesn't know where to go to hide in order to avoid the rest of the screaming children.
The vultures appear: Les-bionic Woman and Tweedy Bird are looking at me. Shit. In my dazed state of lack of sleep and some sort of hangover (that of which I cannot name), I look lost and ignored. They feel sorry for me. Shit. I'm not sorry, I'm Happy. Shit. Bionic motions for me to come over and chat. She thinks I need some company. Shit! I have no way around this… what do I do?!? Wave her off? That would be rude, and she is a very temperamental lesbian, who you, essentially want on your side! Shit Shit Shit!
I approach the two and we engage in some sort of small talk, which quickly turns to gossip: "So, I heard you were sitting next to "V-woman" yesterday, yeah, she is great secretary, she really knows her –" … this continues for a measure of unbearable time, and I begin tuning out in an effort to save the one brain cell I didn't kill last night "…never help her again, I swear to god, she is so fat and she never does N-E-thing…" Oh, god. What do I Do? Cell phone. Text your friend, he'll call you. Text Him. PLEASE CALL ME. DESPERATE. NEED SOMEONE TO CALL. "…Yeah, she just never does anything, and look at her over there chatting it up with the partners, who does she… " Comon'Dude, please please please. I look longingly at my cell phone, while nodding a feign of interest. Please call. Please. Nothing. I look at Lesbian's partner in crime, TweedyBird, the entire time motionless except for her head bobbing up and down in agreeance. Look to phone: nothing. Tweedy: bob. Text him again. PLEASE YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND SEVERITY. GET ME OUT OF HERE! CALL ME! Nothing. Absolutelyfuckingnothing. Ten minutes has gone by, and I start to get weak, as I defiantly feel the last braincell frantically waving a white flag. I panic, then a moment of deafening clarity: bathroom? Yes, Bathroom! I have to go pee!!! Yes! "And she's just so catty, I –" I step in before BioGirl takes her next breath. "I'm sorry, do you know where the bathroom is out here?" She stops and examines me, searching for wry intentions, but then responds, "Oh, yeah, in the Garage, just ask one of the guys."
"Thanks a lot, I'll be right back," I say with a smile and briskly make my inelegant exit.
I go to the garage, no bathroom. I don't have to go anyway. I find a corner. I hide in the corner of the very dark, windy and cold garage, while frantically calling every friend I know trying to not be indicted again into that pit of despair. Just as I was about to consider what an overdose on Aleve would take, an elevator luckily begins to work again. I immediatly take it up and away from the courtyard of socially-hierarchical chaos to hide in one of the unlit conference rooms before someone finds out where I am - Honestly though, if I didn't say anything, that could probably take days.
You see, this presents a very precarious position for me, because being a temp, I know everyone, yet, no one really knows me. But, they feel the need to make daunting small talk with me about… whatever. I, being in the legion of Secretaries, am supposed to make small talk with the secretaries. This, I cannot stand. However, the partners won't engage me in conversation, because they think I am a secretary and therefore have the IQ of a subservient chinchilla (they would never outright admit this, but fuckme if it's not true).
Scene: Partners and Secretaries, standing idly in the courtyard, smoking cigarettes and making their trips to the StarBucks to kill time until the building is resuscitated: partners talking to stuffy-haughty partners, secretaries talking to shabby-slouchy secretaries. And me, standing there like a sardonic, trench-coat donning, sunglass wearing, cigarette smoking, 5 year old who just got transferred into a different Kindergarten, and doesn't know where to go to hide in order to avoid the rest of the screaming children.
The vultures appear: Les-bionic Woman and Tweedy Bird are looking at me. Shit. In my dazed state of lack of sleep and some sort of hangover (that of which I cannot name), I look lost and ignored. They feel sorry for me. Shit. I'm not sorry, I'm Happy. Shit. Bionic motions for me to come over and chat. She thinks I need some company. Shit! I have no way around this… what do I do?!? Wave her off? That would be rude, and she is a very temperamental lesbian, who you, essentially want on your side! Shit Shit Shit!
I approach the two and we engage in some sort of small talk, which quickly turns to gossip: "So, I heard you were sitting next to "V-woman" yesterday, yeah, she is great secretary, she really knows her –" … this continues for a measure of unbearable time, and I begin tuning out in an effort to save the one brain cell I didn't kill last night "…never help her again, I swear to god, she is so fat and she never does N-E-thing…" Oh, god. What do I Do? Cell phone. Text your friend, he'll call you. Text Him. PLEASE CALL ME. DESPERATE. NEED SOMEONE TO CALL. "…Yeah, she just never does anything, and look at her over there chatting it up with the partners, who does she… " Comon'Dude, please please please. I look longingly at my cell phone, while nodding a feign of interest. Please call. Please. Nothing. I look at Lesbian's partner in crime, TweedyBird, the entire time motionless except for her head bobbing up and down in agreeance. Look to phone: nothing. Tweedy: bob. Text him again. PLEASE YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND SEVERITY. GET ME OUT OF HERE! CALL ME! Nothing. Absolutelyfuckingnothing. Ten minutes has gone by, and I start to get weak, as I defiantly feel the last braincell frantically waving a white flag. I panic, then a moment of deafening clarity: bathroom? Yes, Bathroom! I have to go pee!!! Yes! "And she's just so catty, I –" I step in before BioGirl takes her next breath. "I'm sorry, do you know where the bathroom is out here?" She stops and examines me, searching for wry intentions, but then responds, "Oh, yeah, in the Garage, just ask one of the guys."
"Thanks a lot, I'll be right back," I say with a smile and briskly make my inelegant exit.
I go to the garage, no bathroom. I don't have to go anyway. I find a corner. I hide in the corner of the very dark, windy and cold garage, while frantically calling every friend I know trying to not be indicted again into that pit of despair. Just as I was about to consider what an overdose on Aleve would take, an elevator luckily begins to work again. I immediatly take it up and away from the courtyard of socially-hierarchical chaos to hide in one of the unlit conference rooms before someone finds out where I am - Honestly though, if I didn't say anything, that could probably take days.
Damn it.
A perfectly good excuse was wasted this morning, and now it has to bow its sad little pathetic head and move to the back of the "excuse line," where it will ask fellow excuses for change in order to buy a coffee, and wait its turn until it can be used again. SO. Alright, I admit, I DID stay up until an unreasonable hour this morning doing… whatever, and I DID call in at 8:45am in order see if I could finagle a little more sleeping time: "Hi. Sweet Human Recourses Woman ("SHRW")? Yes, I have the worst allergies (or fill in blank) and my eyes are watering all over the place, I was just going to come in a little bit late so I can compose myself."
Mind you of course, I do not have allergies. But very often I come down with all sorts of ailments, which cause me to be over an hour or two late; when in reality, I don't think I've been sick in over a year. These wonder-causations of tardiness include, but are not limited to: migraine, the flu (that is going around office), the cold (that is going around office) – in fact when cold season comes up, I become very excited because I can use it to my discretion – bladder infection (my favorite), food poisoning (usually from sushi restaurant by my house), allergies (during the spring and fall), car trouble (very rarely, because it sounds like an excuse), PID (Pelvic Inflammatory Disease – only in extreme emergencies), pink eye (that one's awesome), had to drive friend to airport (usually during the holidays), alarm didn't go off (sparingly, there's only so many times, before logically, you would simply buy a new alarm), … but I digress:
SHRW: "Oh, whew, sure that’s fine, I was worried, because we have a lot for you today."
Me: "Um… is 11:00 okay?"
SHRW "Oooooo *pitch unable to replicate* Um… - "
Me: "Oh… lots of work, huh? Okay, I guess I can get there by ten."
SHRW: "Oh, thanks so much, you're a lifesavor!"
Damn it.
A perfectly good excuse was wasted this morning, and now it has to bow its sad little pathetic head and move to the back of the "excuse line," where it will ask fellow excuses for change in order to buy a coffee, and wait its turn until it can be used again. SO. Alright, I admit, I DID stay up until an unreasonable hour this morning doing… whatever, and I DID call in at 8:45am in order see if I could finagle a little more sleeping time: "Hi. Sweet Human Recourses Woman ("SHRW")? Yes, I have the worst allergies (or fill in blank) and my eyes are watering all over the place, I was just going to come in a little bit late so I can compose myself."
Mind you of course, I do not have allergies. But very often I come down with all sorts of ailments, which cause me to be over an hour or two late; when in reality, I don't think I've been sick in over a year. These wonder-causations of tardiness include, but are not limited to: migraine, the flu (that is going around office), the cold (that is going around office) – in fact when cold season comes up, I become very excited because I can use it to my discretion – bladder infection (my favorite), food poisoning (usually from sushi restaurant by my house), allergies (during the spring and fall), car trouble (very rarely, because it sounds like an excuse), PID (Pelvic Inflammatory Disease – only in extreme emergencies), pink eye (that one's awesome), had to drive friend to airport (usually during the holidays), alarm didn't go off (sparingly, there's only so many times, before logically, you would simply buy a new alarm), … but I digress:
SHRW: "Oh, whew, sure that’s fine, I was worried, because we have a lot for you today."
Me: "Um… is 11:00 okay?"
SHRW "Oooooo *pitch unable to replicate* Um… - "
Me: "Oh… lots of work, huh? Okay, I guess I can get there by ten."
SHRW: "Oh, thanks so much, you're a lifesavor!"
Damn it.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
I was just accosted by a semi-drunk woman rambling about filing orders and "Larry." I don't know who she is or where she came from, but she told me that she was recently on vacation, where she wanted to stay, and there is someone I need to call right away in order to find out exactly where to put something that seems semi-important. Then she walked away waving at some imaginary gnat. It's 5:15. I'm going home.
Just for your reference to all you bosses and/or administrative heads out there: "You are amazing, I don't care what they say!" is not a compliment in my eyes. Though I am pretty "inside my head" most of the time... If "they" obviously are saying negative things about me, why have "you" waited until now to let me know, and who are "they" anyway? I would like to speak with "them," and find out exactly what "they" think I am doing wrong; and the fact that "YOU" are disregarding "them" completely like that, I feel is inappropriate. What gives "you" the right to descend from the ranks and go against "them" in the first place?
Apparently, V-woman next to me has some pretty strong, yet muddled opinions about the Michael Jackson case herself. And, she constantly refers to what she's heard, yet won't read the voluminous documentation I have been nurotically examining for the last three hours, and am, at this point vigorously (and vehemently) suggesting.
V: "See, what I herd was, that the mother has been extortin' all these people and she's just in for money."
Thereby I respond thusly: "Well, actually there is this article in Vanity Fair and these news reports on CNN which state that the mother wasn't involved in the extortion but it was actually the father. The mother had nothing to do wit—"
Vaginachron: "Oh, I don't believe any of that, I heard bad stuff about this family. That's all I'm saying."
I have an overwhelming urge to throw my apple at her head, so I return to my Google search of "Michael Jackson Jordie Chandler pics boys."
Hopefully, that doesn't come up with anything deemed unsuitable to the network administrator.
V: "See, what I herd was, that the mother has been extortin' all these people and she's just in for money."
Thereby I respond thusly: "Well, actually there is this article in Vanity Fair and these news reports on CNN which state that the mother wasn't involved in the extortion but it was actually the father. The mother had nothing to do wit—"
Vaginachron: "Oh, I don't believe any of that, I heard bad stuff about this family. That's all I'm saying."
I have an overwhelming urge to throw my apple at her head, so I return to my Google search of "Michael Jackson Jordie Chandler pics boys."
Hopefully, that doesn't come up with anything deemed unsuitable to the network administrator.
Honestly. Honestly, I get paid an inordinate amount of money to do almost absolutely nothing. and ... AND I have a degree. But at this point I forget what my degree is in because I've spent the last 3 hours staring at the computer screen, catching up on articles from Vanity Fair and doing my OWN investigation into whether I think Michael Jackson touched little boys in their bathingsuit places. My conclusion, after three hours of mouth agape, non-moving, non-blinking constipated concentration (besides the fact that my left leg is asleep and my back is arranged in one of the most painful curvatures that I have ever experienced): He did it: he totally fondled the way of the priest. I'm sure of it. I'm also sure that the woman next to me smells like vagina, and hasn't done an iota of work since she got here either. Except for she copied a piece of paper, and then sat down with it next to me looking very smug with herself. I examined the paper, then her, then the piece of paper again, as she waited for some sort of acknowledgement of her feat.
"Cool," I said. "I just got an e-mail from mailerdeamon."
She has no idea what I'm talking about.
"Cool," I said. "I just got an e-mail from mailerdeamon."
She has no idea what I'm talking about.
Today, her name is Bertha. Bertha. Obviously, she must be old. At least old enough to where the day she was born her parents thought, "Bertha, what a beautiful name for a slightly overweight and squinty eyed baby; yes, yes that name is perfect: I think we'll go with Bertha." Because you know that there is absolutely no way in hell that there is a reasonable person out there today who would chose "Bertha" as a name for their child - unless, I concede, it was a family name, OR you were in the South... or the backwoods of Georgia. But those places don't count; unless you want to film them or put them on display in some sort of carni-photography exhibit, which mind you I think has always been a fantastic idea - but I hear that they don't take too kindly to those types of thinkin'.
Bertha just called. I don't know the name of the partner-ass that I'm supposed to be kissing yet, so I'm sure I fucked up his name when I answered the phone. "Mr. BuOngin-y's office." I think this caused Bertha to become upset, and I can only assume that she rolled her eyes, or busted a seem in her polyurethane pants or something of the sort, the fat around her midsection contracting and expanding under the stress of it all. She said in a slightly harried tone "Just tell him, I'll be there by 1pm." I don't know why she's so stressed out. I haven't done anything all morning... AND I showed up 45 minutes late.
I think someone noticed, but I don't know who.
Bertha just called. I don't know the name of the partner-ass that I'm supposed to be kissing yet, so I'm sure I fucked up his name when I answered the phone. "Mr. BuOngin-y's office." I think this caused Bertha to become upset, and I can only assume that she rolled her eyes, or busted a seem in her polyurethane pants or something of the sort, the fat around her midsection contracting and expanding under the stress of it all. She said in a slightly harried tone "Just tell him, I'll be there by 1pm." I don't know why she's so stressed out. I haven't done anything all morning... AND I showed up 45 minutes late.
I think someone noticed, but I don't know who.
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