Technology is catching one of my wishes, to freeze-dry a woman’s eggs till she wants to use ’em. But I found it really fucking depressing when they noted, “Women are not only wrinkling on the outside, but on the inside as well.”
Like Bart Simpson said, “I didn’t think it was possible but this sucks AND blows!”
On iTunes: Tara MacLean, “More”
Spent the last day and a half in meetings. Recovering from these is like the inverse of recovering from the breakup of a relationship. After a breakup, they say it takes half the amount of time that you dated someone to get over them. After meetings, it typically takes me twice as long to recover.
It’s not that I don’t have six piles of paperwork and 179 e-mails to attend to; I just don’t wanna. Plain and simple.
Speaking of plain and simple, we changed some procedures this month, which one staffer took as her chance to not meet deadlines. She is whining to everyone who will listen that she “knows deadlines.” And people are trying to defend her, saying that she simply didn’t have enough time to become accustomed to the new procedures. Fucking moron — the only real change was that she has to send the same information to a DIFFERENT person, but the deadlines are less flexible with my staff than they have been with the former point person. Meaning, no more asking me, “What’s your REAL deadline?” because my real deadline was the one you were given, and if you want to miss it, there’s a 150 percent rush charge. Period. And all of this was explained to her and a dozen others, and she’s the only fucktard who couldn’t get the hint.
Speaking of getting the hint, our former president, Princess Fatass, tried bullying me yesterday. I asked for his guidance in developing a policy, and he overrode me and told me how disappointed he is in me that I didn’t remember a conversation he claims we had more than a year ago. OK, No. 1, I would have remembered something that had to do with my magazine, and No. 2, I was in the HOSPITAL at this time last year, so no, this conversation probably never took place. How DARE that ham-and-cheese-on-legs tell ME that he’s angry at ME for supposedly FORGETTING something he probably told to his cheeseburger? Of course, his request had a flaw in it, so I called bullshit on him and said I’d have never agreed to it based on that alone.
Fuck him. I’m setting the policy according to my budget and to my wishes, not according to some Krispy Kreme with hands who bullies everybody who crosses his path instead of cooperating with them. Fuck off and die, you overinflated corny turd who’s a french fry away from needing three airplane seats at a time.
On iTunes: BT, “Simply Being Loved”
Okay, so I run a magazine. I have technical skills and speak a lingo that I expect fellow publishing-type people to understand. I communicate with technical people and laypeople equally well. However, I encountered a real fuckwit in my field who couldn’t even understand the techie-speak, so I dumbed it down and still don’t understand why the hell she can’t accommodate my request.
I purchased the rights to a photo that ran in a local newspaper (printed on newsprint — hold that thought; it comes in handy later). An important person in my organization was seen hanging out with Sen. John Kerry. I called this “special editor” (and boy is she special) and asked her to FTP a TIF in CMYK my way. I paid $50 for this request and waited four days for this.
So I get an e-mail with a TIF in RGB. No big deal; I can fix that. But what the dumb broad did was scan the photo FROM THE NEWSPRINT and e-mail it to me. I could have done THAT myself! As if THAT weren’t bad enough, there is a ton of text on the photo, telling their readers to see the related story in whatever section on whatever page. They also had the cutline placed on the photo instead of separately, under it. *sigh*
So I contacted this genius today to say apparently we had a misunderstanding and that I wanted the TIF of the ACTUAL PHOTO FROM THE LAYOUT. And she has tried valiantly to e-mail this humongous file to me (hence why I wanted it FTP’d). And when I told her that I get messages that the attachment gets stripped because it’s too fucking big to e-mail, well, she e-mailed it again. Same problem.
So now I have her trying to find out if anyone has an FTP program she can use — I am willing to give her my FTP login information so she can dump it directly onto my server. Apparently this is rocket science, because she’s stumped. I could, of course, request that she burn a CD and mail it to me, but I’ve got deadlines and I can’t keep waiting for her to get it together. I can’t believe I had to pay for this aggravation and I STILL don’t have the fucking photo in-hand!
I hate people who poop at work, because they funk up the john for all the rest of us innocent souls who simply cannot hold our bladders until we can go home to the sanctity of our clean bathrooms.
I just saw one of the executives walking (well, more like pinching his cheeks together and shuffling his feet than walking) past my office on the way to the men’s room with the newspaper under his arm. Not the newspaper I produce, mind you (mine is best left in a litterbox), but the WaPo. It’s like a fucking billboard advertisement when someone waddles past with a pending load in his shorts and a four-inch-thick newspaper in tow.
I pity that toilet.
On iTunes: New Found Glory, “Come Back Bon Jovi”
Because I’d much rather sit here, chainsmoking and eating honey-wheat pretzels dipped in raspberry-wasabi mustard instead of housecleaning, I figured I’d blog till my brains fall out. Which should occur in approximately five minutes. The brains falling out, that is, not the housecleaning. 🙂
One of my purchases this weekend included scandalous underthings that are safely tucked away in an “in case of emergency, break glass” kind of hideaway. Presently, I am debating about taking out a personal ad: “Have new sleazy underwear. Want to break them in. Free fucks galore if you promise to leave before daybreak.”
Speaking of free fucks galore, my dreams have been inherently (and almost disturbingly) sexual. Could it be that I am a newly crowned vibrator peddler? Anyone from male colleagues to the hot server/dancer at Coyote Ugly have popped up in various degrees of undress in my dreams. In last night’s dream, I was in the parking lot at work in the aforementioned scandalous knickers with someone I should not be thinking about in that kind of way. The dreams always involve me getting close to someone but then pulling myself away and running for daylight — much like most of my relationships. If it doesn’t feel 100 percent right, then I can’t do it. There are people I fuck and people I love, and it’s always mutually exclusive like that. Will it always be that way? I may never find out.
On iTunes: Dave Matthews Band, “The Space Between”
I’ve been in such a funk lately that the only thing that could help was shopping.
Angie and I left work at 2 p.m. on Friday with the honest intention of only running to the post office. But then I decided I should really return a suit to Old Navy (read: $60 refund). But I spent another $20 while I was there, and we went next-door to Borders Books for some much-needed caffeine.
Well, don’t drink specialty coffee drinks with lots of sugar and caffeine when you’re near a mall. On a payday. Seriously. Because you will bust out that credit card and show it to anyone wearing a name tag! We ended up at Springfield Mall and did hundreds of dollars of damage at Tar-zhay, Spencers, J.C. Penney and everywhere in between. We bought shirts and purses and shoes and belts and all kinds of fun household goodies. I picked up some microfiber pillows and a rug for the living room. Now to clean the house so I can properly furnish it!
I picked up some cobalt blue sheets from Wallyworld, too. I’m moving toward breaking up the black theme of the house by introducing shades of purple into the living room and cobalt blue in the bedroom. And because I am broke till next payday already, I am glad to have fun projects ’round the house, ’cause I can’t exactly afford to leave it anytime soon. 🙂
I just ordered some birthday gifts for Alex — she turns 1 year old on Monday! She’s fascinated by Elmo (that furry little fucker is crack for kids), so I got a talking doll and matching cell phone and shipped it out to Oregon. I included a card that said I wanted her to have a friend until I can come out there and play with her again.
A part of me is in denial that Alex and Shan really aren’t here in Virginia anymore, but when it occurs to me that it’s true, I burst into tears on command. Everything reminds me of them. And I can’t forget Alex waving to me as she and her daddy got on the elevator at work to leave the building. I keep telling Shan she has got to get that baby into modeling — there are some babies who are cute, and there are many who are not. But Alex is ethereally pretty — sometimes you look at her, and you’re stunned that she’s so little. I mean, she looks at you like she has unscrambled the mysteries of the world and is just waiting to be able to talk so that she can share her insights. She will grow into her beauty, of that I’m sure.
I can’t believe she’s a year old already — I remember driving like a madwoman down to George Washington University Hospital for her birth. I couldn’t wait to see her. I couldn’t hold her because she was a preemie and was attached to monitors and machines for the first couple of weeks of her life. But I remember parking myself at Shan’s bedside for those first few days, fighting with doctors and running to the gift shop for chocolates and pink baby gifts. And something told me that I won’t have my own, but it’s OK because in a way, Alex will always be mine, too. Shan tells everyone that the reason Alex is here today is because of me. I knew something was wrong and begged Shan to go to the hospital, threatening violence on her if she didn’t go (she was seven months along with Alex at the time). If there’s one thing Shan does, she listens to me when my intuition kicks in, and thankfully so. The doctors did a sonogram and saw Alex was so active that the cord got wrapped around her neck. So they delivered immediately. Everytime someone asks Shan about when Alex came into the world, she insists I am the reason Alex is here today (like she and her husband didn’t have something to do with it! LOL). But I admit I feel a little special there — I will always have a connection to that gorgeous little girl.
She may have also saved me as well. A month after she was born, I went into surgery. When I woke up on the operating table, Shan had placed her on my belly, so that was the first little face I saw. And my hospital ordeal and the painful recovery following it nearly killed me, but I kept remembering those moments with Alex, knowing that if she could make it after such an auspicious start to life, well, then I could get through my horrible medical adventures as well.
So anyway, happy birthday, princess. Your favorite aunt misses you and loves you very much.
On iTunes: Everything But the Girl, “Apron Strings”
*updated*
I just got a talking-to because I’ve been sportin’ a llittle too much cleavage of late. Had to explain to the boss that I haven’t done laundry in weeks, so I’m kinda wearing whatever I can find. She said nothing of the fact that my shirt is also see-thru; she’s just concerned that I’ve rediscovered the low-cut shirts.
Mom said that I should stop showing the melons when she finally shaves her mustache. 😉
Update
Since Dan asked for photographic evidence , this was me at Angie’s b-day party on Saturday.
On iTunes: Abigail, “Let the Joy Rise”
Said goodbye to Shan today — her plane was to have left for the scenic wilds of Oregon on Monday, but she had to miss it because she still had tons of shit in her condo. They rescheduled for yesterday (at great expense, including a hotel room), but thanks to Enterprise rental cars for being dicks about the truck she rented, she missed the rescheduled flight. She told me that if I ever hear that the Enterprise building burned down, then I will know who was responsible!
But her luggage went on the plane (and the tranquilized cats almost did — the cats were to go as carry-on, but the airline decided to be nice and stick them in cargo, but you can’t put cats on drugs in cargo or they will DIE!). So she had to run around the airport, trying to get her cats back. After that fiasco, Enterprise tried to say her credit card was rejected. This is the card to which the proceeds from her condo sale were posted, so there’s no way in hell that the card should have been rejected. The bottom line? Many arguments and phone calls later, they missed the flight, had no clothes in the city, and stayed at the hotel. And, of course, went shopping for clothes/necessities for their unexpected extra night in D.C.
Because they couldn’t return the truck, they didn’t have a chance to put their cars in storage. So today, she called and asked if I could go with her to drop off the cars and give her a ride back where she needed to go. Which I did, gladly, of course. She offered to pay me for my trouble, but I wouldn’t take a dime. But I appreciated the gesture — nobody ever offered to compensate me like that!
I went by the airport last night and got weepy because I knew they were there. She said, “Yeah, we were there — and then we left. Hooray.”
I picked up the phone today, only to hear her voice. “Guess where I am?” she said. I offered, “Oregon?” She said, “Nope. Fucking Virginia. I am beginning to believe I am never going to get out of this city. Please find me a ledge that I can jump off of!”
In any event, we got to say a real goodbye, as opposed to the past three days of doing it over the phone when we thought she was getting on the plane on whichever day it was. It was quick but painful. I told her I missed her already.
Angie’s best friend left for West Virginia a few days ago. She moved her family there, and it came with equal yet so very different doses of aggravation than Shan experienced. Angie had recommended that I treat it like ripping off a bandage — just do it as quickly as possible. But I think it benefited me to have the slow goodbye — like a long, drawn-out ordeal, it was best to wait to want to just get it overwith. I was fine till I pulled out of the parking lot, and she pulled out in another direction. When her car disappeared from sight in my rearview mirror, I sobbed like my life were ending. And in a way, it was. You spend every single day of your life with someone and know that you were lucky to be loved by this person, and then you realize that, even though your friendship has what it takes to stand the test of time, it’s going to hurt like hell to not have her nearby anymore.
I did what I always do when I’m depressed — I went to Wal-Mart. Thankfully, I only ended up with cat food for the little vomit-and-shit machines. When Angie’s friend left, she ended up at the mall and dropped $200 to ease her pain. She had called me from the mall to tell me that, to warn me what could happen to me. It almost happened — not that I have $200 to drop, but I was picking up things, walking around the store with them and putting them back, just to feel like I was DOING something other than moping.
Anyway, as soon as I dropped her off, she said they were heading to Reagan National AGAIN. I assume she made the flight this time and that the next call will come from three time zones away. *sob*
Angie very nicely did some rituals to send some good ju-ju and tranquility Shan’s way. I also asked her to do something to make sure Alex isn’t climbing the airplane walls — the kid cannot sit still to save her life, and she’s more than happy to express her frustration in no uncertain terms. I was sending Alex vibes last night when I thought they were flying, asking her to be good for Mommy for one little day in her life. I need to amp up those vibes right now. *concentrate*
Damn, I feel lost right now.
On iTunes: Cyndi Lauper, “Shine (Victor Calderone Club Mix)”
Not only is that my favorite Cyndi Lauper song that totally rocked socks live last night, but it’s also the truth.
Angie and I got so freakin’ lost finding Wolf Trap Farm Park out in Bumfuck Egypt Vienna last night, but we quickly tore into the two bottles of wine she had packed for us, and the aggravation became a faded memory. The directions from Crapquest Mapquest blew chunks — it should never take 60 minutes and four cigarettes to go six miles from the Vienna metro stop.
But alas, we had fun. We danced and sang and had no shortage of laughs. We were 11 and 12 again, jumping on our beds in our nightgowns, belting out “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” “All Through the Night” and “Time After Time.” Cyndi played some songs from her new album (who knew?), and our favorite was “Eventually.” I think I need to get that CD post-haste. 🙂
There was some jackass behind us who kept yelling out with his thick Indian accent, “Seet down! Please will you seet down! Thank you for seeting down!” Um, I thought the point of concerts was to go rock out — it’s not like we could see the tiny figure singing on the stage from where we were.
I was pleasantly entertained by opener Taylor Dayne. There was a cute T-Shirt of hers, all black with hot pink letters, but I just couldn’t see myself ever advertising her in public. But girlfriend’s got some pipes, I say. I was one of those assholes who made phone calls to share the concert experience, although I was not one of the obnoxious ones who sticks their phone in the air — my headset picked up the sounds rather well, and I could be covert about it.
Poor Angie suffered some minor injuries — she got a splinter under her finger when she bought her Cyndi Lauper T-shirt, and her shoe broke while we were hiking to the car after the event. Oh, but the pain was not over yet. She dropped me off at the Vienna metro station, only for me to find that the last train left five minutes before I arrived. So she had to come back and drag my ass out to the Van Dorn metro stop, where I had left my car. And we laughed like hyenas when we got on I-66 and saw signs for Wolf Trap — we were lost for an HOUR because we didn’t know how to get there (and there aren’t signs for it on the other highways), yet had we taken 66, we’d have been set. And she barely made it in for the 9 a.m. staff meeting (it’s a long-ass drive). She really did drive all night, like the song says!
The staff meeting was good. We’re going to get 75 percent of our furlough time refunded to us. For those of us who were forced to work on those days, we’re thrilled. For everyone else, it was extra paid vacation time. I personally thanked the CEO for the decision. He said we earned it. I have to agree!
On iTunes: Nova Space, “Time After Time (techno mix)”
