Yay! Esteban is home! Poor boy, though. I’m completely fried from my new job. I made him go out and get me some peanut butter Twix ice cream last night because I was uber stressed. I’ve made claims to my team members about jumping in with both feet, but apparently the thing I’m jumping into is teaming with sharks. And maybe acid. Sharks that have somehow adapted to swim in acid. Something. I don’t know.
It’s a strange thing, leaving my old job and going to a new one. I’m still in the same department, working with the same people but there’s all these sharks and acid and stuff. I dreamt about it all last night. You should get overtime for dream work. I’d even take extra dreams as compensation. What a waste of a perfectly good dream, thinking about product definitions and retail measurements. Gah.
On the plus side, I haven’t told anyone to reboot even once in the last two days.
Oddly enough, I didn’t really start writing in this diary until I was fully ensconced into my previous position doing Tech Support. I hope that wasn’t the key, because now I feel so fried that I don’t want to give anything of myself, don’t want to expand or think, I just want to stare out the window at the pretty birds.
On another plus side, my new cubicle is about three times the size of the old one. Oh, technically it’s the same size, but my ass isn’t sticking out into the department and this one is in a corner, sharing a spot with another work station, so I essentially have this realllllly long desk at my disposal. I’ve already annexed one of the shelves to house my binders that I never open. I don’t know why I cling to these binders. Job security perhaps. Before I moved to this department, I wouldn’t have even been able to estimate how many binders I had and they were all the big three inch jobbies, too. I think the more important you are, the fewer binders you require. My boss has no binders. I technically only need one or two, but I still keep them around for some reason.
I also have this enormous walking area. It’s bigger than my living room at home. Thus, if I wanted to stretch out, it would be all good. It’s very private back here. My keystrokes seem like little mallets being clicked onto a metal drum.
I’m getting a laptop at some point. Right now I’m on my two old pc’s. Apparently, I will be trading my dog pc for the laptop and then my fast sleek pc will by default be considered the dog pc. That’s funny how things like that work. When I was first dating Esteban, he gave me some kind of computer. I don’t remember the brand but I remember that I had a color monitor. Well…It had two colors. Black and amber. It didn’t have a hard drive, just two disk drives. There was no way you could have a modem. Then for my birthday the next year, he gave me a 286 Laser Pal with a 16 color monitor (Imagine! 14 more colors!), 2 mb RAM, a 40 meg harddrive and a 2400 baud modem. I believe the setup cost him $1600. I thought I was pretty slick. I’ve got PCs in my garage that I can’t GIVE AWAY which would smoke that PC. Funny. Technology is creating mini-generation gaps. When I was your age, I had a 2400 baud modem and I LIKED IT, Missy! I was happy! I couldn’t imagine what I would do to fill up 40 megs of hard drive space. Now my Frankenstein PC can’t even play WarCraft III and life sucks entirely too much.
June called me last night, distraught. It seemed that she had been shopping and saw the $7 shirts on clearance. For $2.78. She didn’t know what size or which colors, so she guessed and got me four white ones and four red ones. I have the best mother-in-law in the world. Seriously. She rocks. And she’s going to bead my renaissance dress for Esteban’s cousin’s Renaissance wedding next year. She’ll do it by hand. Yes. She’s anal retentive sometimes but I adore her.
The girls and I are going to see Sheryl Crow and Michelle Branch tomorrow at the local casino. They’re having the concert in a tent. A TENT! It will be just like the circus, only with gambling and old people blowing their social security checks. Then, Carissa is insisting that we go to the Bad Bar. Penny suspects that Buzz the Swishypants bartender will be working. Supposedly he’s not swishy, but again, I must bring up People’s Exhibit A: Red Velvet Pants. Those are not the pants of a straight man. I’m just saying.
My friend Heidi accosted me in the parking lot the other day and demanded that I never slack from updating for four whole days again. “Four Days?!?!” I was puzzled, because I had just updated like twice. Apparently, over the weekend, I posted on Saturday and then didn’t again until Tuesday. And this is four days in skewed Heidi logic.
I keep licking my lips and making them chapped. I wish I had some Blistex Ultimate Moisture right now. Have you tried that stuff? It’s not like nasty minty Hotlips Houlihan Blistex, this is orangey and lovely and smells like Fruit Loops. I’m addicted. I’ve started stockpiling, much like the Body Butter.
I’m wearing my low rider $65 jeans today. I feel like some overweight sixteen year old whose parents are threatening to send her to fat camp. Actually, when I was fourteen, I kind of wanted to go to fat camp, because I thought it would be exactly like the movie Meatballs, only with all fat kids who magically shrink before your eyes over the summer and come back home and get boyfriends and then make the cheerleading squad. And I figured that if you didn’t lose weight, the camp had an insurance policy which would pay for your liposuction, because they had a GUARANTEE.
But then, I also thought that X-ray glasses from the back of Archie & Jughead Digests would allow you to see through a boy’s parachute pants.
Oh! The comments section on yesterday’s entry was screwed up and I got like 9 emails letting me know that people had commented but only 7 comments actually showed up, so if you left me a comment on yesterday’s entry that you want me to see, maybe go back and check if it’s still there? And if not, maybe leave it again?
Have a super weekend!
(You know what? “Haper Saver Weeker” apparently doesn’t mean anything, but I sure thought it did when I typed it. Gah. I’m done now.)
