What's Mine Is Yours

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Go Fuck Yourself

The company where I work uses instant messaging a lot for communication. At any given time, I have nine or ten or twenty IM windows open. We use abbreviations like 'yt' and 't' and 'otp' and 'iam' and my personal, secret favorite 'gfy,' which seemed like morse code to me when I started, but that I now use as shorthand because I HAVE SO MANY FUCKING IM WINDOWS OPEN I CAN'T KEEP TRACK OF THEM ALL. Which is probably why I don't always respond when you IM me; a lot of the time, I just lose them and when I come back and find them seven hours later, you've long given up on the conversation.

Last night, I was working from home, and drinking wine. After about the third glass, I noticed our senior vp was online.

I opened an IM window to her and typed "FUCK YOU." After already logging almost forty hours IN TWO DAYS (and not being a lawyer, and not making six figures, not even close) and then having a director mention that my position wasn't as "critical" as others in our weekly staff meeting, I thought it was a perfectly reasonable statement.

But then I got really freaked out, and closed it quickly without sending it.

That whole night, I tossed and turned thinking about what would happen if I had actually sent that IM, but by accident, and how screwed I was.

I came to the following conclusions:

a. I need some balls

b. If I had accidentally hit sent it right then, I totally would've run up three grand in bills on Amazon and Gap and Ikea and then said that my identity had been stolen.

Monday, June 27, 2005

Reason #311 You Should Be Glad You're Not My Boyfriend

Brett exits the bathroom.

"Hey baby," I say, "While you were in the bathroom, Wee-Man called, and he wanted me to tell you --"

And I slap him in the nuts.

"This isn't Jackass!" he howls.

I'm under a lot of stress these days.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

Learning My Limits

On Saturday, Brett and I had a busy day: a yard sale at 9 a.m., a backyard barbecue at 2 p.m., and tickets to see Sleater-Kinney at 9 p.m. (though they weren't scheduled to go on until 11:30).

The yard sale was a huge success; we piggybacked off of some of Brett's neighbors who were having sales. Theirs went until 2 p.m., we'd sold the best of our junk by 11 a.m. and put the rest out in a 'FREE' box. Most of the stuff we sold was mine -- clothes, shoes, an old clunky digital camera, a foot bath, a webcam, a powder-blue indestructable keyboard, dvds, vhs tapes. We made about $50, which we spent on grub for the barbecue.

I hadn't slept well the night before, so by the time people started showing up for the barbecue, I was pretty pooped and contemplating a nap. However, we'd planned to throw it to celebrate the fact that we've finally found an apartment to share -- starting the week of August 15, we'll be sharing a two-bedroom, two-bathroom love nest -- so I didn't think I could sneak inside to nap.

I played happy hostess until 7 p.m., which was when we'd told our friends we wanted to wrap up -- so we could clean up Brett's house, ourselves, and maybe catch a nap before the show.

But Brett has a friend who doesn't quit. We'd had a barbecue last summer and the same thing happened -- this guy and his friends wouldn't leave. XYZ and I had a minor disagreement that turned into a major disagreement and, pissed off, I went for a nap. Friend Who Doesn't Quit didn't leave until 9:45, at which point Brett woke me up to shower and head to the show.

We got to the club in perfect time -- the opening band, Dead Meadow, was just finishing up. We stood around for a bit, and then the Sleater-Kinney girls rocked my fucking socks off. I've never seen them live before, so I wasn't really sure what to expect; they blew me away. So fun, and so good.

On the drive back to Brett's place, I could barely move, and that's when I realized it. The day was too much for me.

"If all of the things we did today -- the yard sale, the barbecue, the show -- happened on their own individual days," I told him, "I would've been much better off."

A day later, I'm still exhausted.

Now, luckily, I know my limits. I'm a one-event-a-day kind of girl.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Work and Play, They're Never OK to Mix the Way We Do

The majority of the time, my job really sucks; i.e., twelve-hour days, being on-call, being unstaffed for new beta launches.

Friday was a coworker's last day. She made a smart choice and decided to move to another team within the company.

At 6:30 p.m., Boss retrieved a Yankee Candle bag of PBR out of our area's fridge. Leaving Coworker and Boss proceeded to shotgun beers. Leaving Coworker chugged like a champ, Boss was a wimp -- his beer flew everywhere.

Boss had to wipe at least six ounces of PBR off the printer.

For five minutes, work was fun and cool. Then at 6:35 p.m., everyone went back to work and didn't leave for another two hours. Then we all went to a pub and got drunk.