Tag Archives: on the job

It’s Thursday

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I thought it was Wednesday, I had to check! Being a woman of leisure is not all it’s cracked up to be. First, I haven’t encountered any actual leisure yet. Instead, I’m mired somewhere else entirely. Oh right, Dracut, Massachusetts. I keep telling myself it would be better if a) I weren’t working on a million piddly, stressful freelance jobs, and b) I weren’t living out of suitcases (more like off piles on the floor), and c) I weren’t still secreting ghee in my lungs. Also, since I “work at home,” everyone assumes I am doing nothing all day. So I scrabble around and prepare dinner for four, like a proper hausfrau. My revenge? Lots of roughage. My poor victims run from the table, groaning, filled to the gills with brown rice and broccoli.

Also, I now know that I definitely couldn’t stay home with a baby, although I suppose a baby would be more interactive than the cat. Even the cat is depressed; she deposits herself in the chair closest to the radiator and lolls there all day, not moving a muscle, not even for mousie.

So my question is: at what point do I give up and take off for the Mexican Riviera? Do advise.

-xxoo

Apathy Level: Bartleby

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Since my lifeforce got sapped by showing up every day to a dying husk of an office to do nothing, I’ve been a bit weary. Yesterday I had a pitched 30 minute battle with myself re: whether or not I should get up to use the bathroom.

I had to get a second opinion. The person I tapped felt that I *should* definitely get up and go. He or she was scandalized to envision any sort of elimination outside of tiled surroundings. Still, I wasn’t convinced.

I started to wonder “If I sit here long enough, will I just go ahead and go, or will my bladder explode? Does toilet-training override basic biological need?” Sometimes when I’m walking down the street, maybe to go to the subway, I also think about what would happen if I just stopped moving. I’d never get home. I might eventually freeze on the street, like some sort of mythological unfortunate. What does it feel like when you just can’t push yourself any farther? How do you know when you’re licked?

Epilogue: Did I go to the bathroom? I’m not saying. Just don’t check the plants in the corner.

-xxoo

My true calling

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It ain’t packing, that’s for sure. Last night I realized I had diligently sealed up all the plates and utensils 3 days in advance of the big move. Eating was a barbaric undertaking, right out of Tom Jones.

But my real life’s wish? To be a rich eccentric. “Oh, now that I’m retired, I mainly race a stable of pigs, ridden by monkeys.”

Glad we sorted that out. I don’t think it’s *that* odd that I have no desire to hold down a job. Both my parents didn’t work when I was a child. A steady diet of seeing your formative role models doing whatever they damn well please may adversely affect one’s inclination to take orders from fools. Unfortunately, they spent my trust fund already by not working. That and some ill-advised day-trading.

-xxoo

I must be wearing a natty lapel pin

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I think it says “Abuse me.” Why else would I be doing work on a saturday for a job from which I’m fired in the future? While my christmas shopping goes undone, the laundry stays filthy, and my husband is a shivering, hacking heap in the spare bedroom. Where are my candy suckers and visits to the petting zoo? I’m resigning myself to the fact that I obviously perpetuated some atrocity in a former life. Or possibly three weeks ago, I’m just not sure anymore.

-xxoo

I’ve got the fever for the flavor

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…of the totally hypothetical layoff package!

From here on out, I recommend that larger layoffs be conducted like American Idol auditions. (Because waiting around all afternoon is the pits. I mean what if I had a dentist appointment?)

“Group two, please step forward.”

“Group one, you’re going to L.A.!!!!!”

And then group two would get cut on by people with British accents. Although that’s darn near what happened to me. But if I say another word, I might potentially jeopardize my theoretical agreement. Oh wait, just saying this much is bad enough. Maybe I’m making this all up. You just don’t know, do you, gentle reader?

In any case, I am unreasonably pleased.

p.s.: Lambchop, I have it on good authority that there is a magic bus that goes down Brighton Ave all the way downtown, thus avoiding the indignities of the train. Or is that just for poor people, whose ranks I may or may not be joining?

-xxoo

Grover Sings the Blues

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He’s so anxious, and he is always screwing up. He hollers and bounces off the wall. Need I tell you how strongly I identify with Grover? I was in a cafe today and I read a Grover poem in a Little Golden Book:

when my imagination

takes me by the mind

it leads me so far, so fast

my body’s left behind

yet that’s when I am most myself

lost in wish and dream

and coming back, I smile and think

“I’m more than I might seem.”

While I was reading it, Tom Jones was howling “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” on the piped-in music.

P.S. Lately I have been feeling uneasy about working for a Firm and squandering all my dough on likker and gewgaws, especially the way I ignore panhandlers. So I have volunteered to become a Big Sister. I know you people think I am inherently incapable of anything approaching sincerity, but I really want to give some time and take a kid to the library, and rollerskating, and listen to her problems.

Oh Shut Up.

-xo

‘Tis the Season to be Tipsy

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It was a brand new freezing day and even though I said NEVER AGAIN, I still came to work in that blighted vessel of the damned.

Last night was my swell roomate’s office xmas party. Thanks for inviting me guys, in spite of my propensity to make out by the copier! (note:I did no such thing. I don’t even think they have a copier.-ed.) Tonight is my firm’s party. I plan to chew and screw. Who needs to get drunk and chatted up by the guys from the mailroom or those screwheads in accounts payable? More to the point, I don’t need my boss to see me acting like an idiot.

Get well soon, most beloved Lickety!

-xo

President Doctor Evil

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Just what we need, a manned base on the moon. Someone alert Astronaut Jones at once!

“”You’ve got the Chinese saying they’re interested — we don’t want them to beat us to the moon. We want to be there to develop the sweet spots,” Republican Senator Sam Brownback says.” Got it. Gay marriage is the new Communism. Asians are the new Russians. The new season of Queer Eye is all about turning straight men into clones of celebrities. Week 1: David Bowie. Week 2: Moby. Week 3: Adam Curry?! I’m hip to the jive.

Personally, I’d get more use out of a clone than a space station on the moon. Clone, go to work for me. Clone, go to the bathroom for me. Clone, administer to my mate, he had a rough day. Oh Clo-one? I could use some more scalloped potatos. Out of the box, just like I like ’em.

Confidential to the two co-workers on vacation while I sit at work rather peaked and weary: First one — I already coughed on your keyboard, or possibly your door handle. You too have a 50-50 chance of dying of rabies now. As for the other, I spread a rumor that you are off attending a FurCon. I keeeeed. Just making sure you’re paying attention. I would never ever do anything like that. Or would I?

-xxoo

Panic in the streets

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Today is all about dread. Fear of the blinky red dot on my mail icon. Fear of the blinky red light on the phone. Fear of the clucking chicken ring on my cellphone, which means messages waiting. I guess it’s my own damn fault for picking that ring, I should switch back to the Bewitched theme.

I am short of breath, and my ears are humming. Now more than ever, I need a personal whitelist of who is actually allowed to address me! I don’t want to field a question from the assorted ding dongs that need to get all up in my existence today. The clueless freelance client who can’t remember where they bought their domain but still needs it pointed somewhere else. The real estate monster, calling to say “We-ell, you can still move in on the first, but you may not have a working elevator…” Verizon, saying “Oh, you would like a phone in your new place? How NOVEL.”

I also don’t want to give advice to people with poor life skills who won’t take it anyway.   Oh, you have baby daddy trouble? That’s too bad. You gained weight? Ha. I am getting a sore throat.

Did this entry stress you out too? I’m sorry. Really, I am. You shouldn’t have to suffer too. Why do we always hurt the ones we love? Let’s talk about a far more soothing topic: my hair. Oh, deep breath. I am soaking in it. I am getting a cut today, which always makes me feel like a squillion bucks. Yes, I know I just got it cut a month ago. But I am like a nappy little Shetland pony. If I don’t go today, when will I go over the next few hellish weeks? The terrorists will have won, and my layers will be shot to shit. Please do not bring up my grown out highlights. I will buy you a gingerbread latte if you just look the other way.

-xxoo

Bullseye

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Sadly, going to Target is not as high-spirited and monochromatic an experience as the TV ads would have one believe. There are no rockettes or dancing christmas trees, and Mark Mothersbaugh is not hovering up in the front office personally DJing over the PA system. I did not see Isaac Mizrahi either. I believe he is in his lair in Trenton, busy laughing, absolutely splitting a side over all the girls who are hoping “you can have high fashion at Target, really.” You can’t. Please do not embarass either one of us further by pretending it’s true. What are you, a communist? I love a bargain as much as the next gal, but crap is crap. It’s Mom Jeans.

But we still managed to make impulse purchases. How do they do it? I came for packing tape and cat litter, I departed with a fleece throw. I didn’t need a giant Toblerone bar, yet I left with one anyway.

It’s just as well, because I ate a few segments of that for dinner: a new level in culinary incompetence even for us. I thought butter noodles a few weeks ago was the absolute nadir, but I was wrong. We’re moving one week from today, and we’ve gone from eating off paper plates to just not bothering with actual food. Well, we did have some apple pie. That’s half a Cider Jack and half a Harpoon Winter Warmer. Spicy. The traces of apple in the cider will prevent scurvy.

Then I capped off the weekend by working on a particularly wretched DHTML-laden freelance project. It seemed like a great idea back in September, but of course the other parties involved assed around until November, and then the client demanded it be live on the 26th. Because the day before Thanksgiving is such a crucial time for web browsing. Why am I not better at saying no? Oh, right, I’m a whore.

-xxoo