Work has been kicking my ass and calling me ‘Nancy’ for several months now. When summer hit, I decided that working all of the extra hours and hours was self-destructive. Not only was I not about to miss another summer, but if I worked the extra hours to try to catch up, it was never going to be obvious that my project needed a second person. However, with the lack of overtime, the stress level increased, since now there were even fewer hours to get the bare minimum accomplished. Thus, my growing insanity. And everything culminated during a conference call in which the team members whose asses I’ve been carrying for the last year said ‘Well, frankly, when I look at your daily reports, I’m not sure how you can fill half a day, much less a whole day.’ To which I replied ‘Excuse me?’ and then let the icy silence underline how offensive the comment had been.
Except that I didn’t really do that. Instead I was so shocked that I uttered something like ‘Well, I’ve been meaning to include the time spent on each issue on the reports’ I’ll have that added.’ And did not say anything about how offensive it was or about how in a year we’ve not seen any metrics on exactly how THEIR side of the project has been spending their precious hours each day. Apparently if you insult me, I’ll ask you if I can get you anything else. I beat myself up about the entire thing for a little while, thinking of all of the things I should have said, or someone on the call should have said, or how every piece of bullshit that I’ve been quietly absorbing for the past twelve months could be summed up in the sentiment behind that very comment. But instead, I decided that if that very stressful meeting didn’t make me break down and cry at work from frustration, then nothing but nothing will push me over the edge in the future. That which does not kill us makes us stronger. Or makes us quit our jobs. I haven’t yet decided which.
Esteban sent me flowers at work the next day. I called them ‘Yay for going back to work’ flowers and left the card on them that said ‘Hope You’re having a Better Day’ so that the world would know that I been done wrong. Or that one wrong move and I’ll cut them, man, I’ll cut them. You d’own wanna be messin’ wit’da Weet, ya hear.
Some days, I am the whitest girl on the planet.
We had a corporate outing on Thursday, which was lovely and involved free food and two drink tickets for the house wine, beer, or soda of our choice. Afterwards, we went to an improv group, the very group that asked me to play along with them years and years back when I was in college. I had declined because I was carrying 18 credits and working 20 hours a week, but now and then I wish I would have, because some of the very coolest people I know (Bob, the guy who was walking with Laurie and I when we saw Johnny Cash) and Poor Yorick (who used to have a diary here, but has allowed it to languish and disappear) are alumni of the group. It must have been an off night for the guys performing, or perhaps we were an off group giving them suggestions, because you know not the agony of purgatory until you’ve sat through an hour of bad improv. To their credit, they did get much better toward the end but I think the night may have been my personal Vietnam. I’m still having flashbacks.
Microsoft Word keeps wanting to change “improv” to “improve”. Heee!
The next day, I decided that I needed to cash in some of my comp time, so I called the spa and booked myself for a massage and a pedicure. Because it was payday. And I’m trying to not think about the balance on my credit card from my recent and impending travels. I joined Esteban for a lunch at our favorite local Mexican restaurant (where I had a steak and spring green salad with cilantro dressing’ yumville) and then scurried off to my massage.
I had yet another masseuse, so I was a bit nervous again, as would be anyone facing the stranger who will be touching their naked body. Sarah was a wee twenty years old and soon we were chatting merrily about which cell phones were the prettiest (mine’s blue!) and which bars she visits illegally. I felt a bit like Goldilocks’ my first masseuse (Pain Thumbs) was too rough, the second had been too light, but Sarah? She was just right. And as though to cement the deal, while she was massaging my legs, out of the blue she asked ‘Do you wax?’ I was startled out of my little Enya-enduced meditation on the finer points of Aveda versus Body Shop. ‘Huh?’ I asked, peering at her from beneath the pillowcase that covered my eyes from the dim light. ‘Your legs’ I mean, I touch a LOT of legs and I have to say that yours are SO smooth. There is just no stubble at all.’ And I giggled, and then explained to her that I do not wax because I wouldn’t be able to stand the amount of time you must endure stubble before you can wax. No, my regime includes a Mach 3 razor, changed regularly, some Aveeno shaving cream, and waiting until the end of the shower before shaving my legs, followed by the Body Shop’s Body Butter. And sadly, I suspect that I’ve been secretly waiting my entire life to have someone notice how smooth my legs are and it finally came in the form of a 20-year-old masseuse. Not quite what I had in mind, but I’ll take it.
Then I had my pedicure, opting for a glittery glammy pink metallic polish (as I would never buy a bottle of it myself, since I know that I would only wear it once) and topping it with a tiny little spider toe ring (the spider had tanzanite-esque crystals in the body and bright green eyes’ too damn cute for my Birkenstocks, that was for sure). I then ran home because Mo was making good on her offer to take me to dinner for my birthday at the local Japanese place. I had to rethink my entire outfit so that I could wear open-toed shoes and show off my Glitter Diva toes. The toes that no one noticed. And my spider toe ring made a little mark in my toe, which makes me suspect that it would eventually cause my toe to turn black and then possibly fall off. Such glamour, you have no idea. I assuaged the pain of having wallflower feet by drowning my sorrows in some lovely sushi and then some ridiculous boat drinks containing lethal amounts of rum. It was a lovely dinner from Mo, even though she tried to scam me for my leftovers, making that whiny ‘But I wouldn’t have given you so much of the rice if I knew that you were just going to take it hooooooooooooooome!’ Gah.
Miscellaneous diary link of the day!
On Saturday, Esteban and I were going to get bagels for breakfast, but we once again tried a local foofy deli. I always suspect that it’s really a money laundering venture, since they have ridiculous hours and I cannot imagine how they stay open. We’ve tried to go to this deli no fewer than four times, each time facing a Closed sign and empty hands. Esteban had tried it once and said that he got the best sandwich ever, but it took twenty minutes to get it and had cost quite a bit (although to Esteban, anything over $3 is too much). This time, however, they were open. We were the only people in the place, each ordering a sandwich, a dessert, and a can of soda. It took twenty five minutes and cost $28, but it was the best sandwich ever. I couldn’t even finish mine, despite the fact that I was starving. Esteban got this dense little chocolate lava cake that almost made you a little high from the cocoa. I had a slice of lemon mist seven layer cake, drizzled with raspberry puree and it was like a slice of summer. I suspect that my breakfast was four thousand calories because only sin can taste that good.
Then we drove out to the ‘burbs and spent the afternoon languishing in the parent’s pool. I floated for several hours in various prone positions. I did handstands all the way across the pool and made myself dizzy from the tumbling. I held my breath for a minute and a half (quite a feat for an asthmatic) and saw spots for three minutes afterwards. And I gave select bits of my alabaster skin a nice angry red hue, due to haphazard sunscreen application. And yet my legs are golden and my arms are brown and my back is a ridiculous white/tan/brown configuration of the straps on my various swimsuits. And the parts which are always covered are this deathly fishbelly white. I have a neopoli-tan. Tres chic.
I was planning on taking a picture of my feet because I was so very proud of them and they looked so cute that they didn’t even squick me out, but wouldn’t you know it, after a day in the pool, less than twenty four hours after the pedicure, there are two enormous chips in the polish on both of my big toes. It is a study in aging glamour, the feet of a drag queen who has seen better days. Thus, I’ll spare you from the horror.
Ah, it sounds as though there’s a big lightening storm coming, so I should power down the computer. I just got the damn thing back and I’m not relishing the idea of frying something again. Hope everyone had a splendid weekend. And used sunscreen wisely.
One Trackback/Pingback
[…] what am I going to wear, short shorts? Bermuda shorts? There is no final strategy for […]