2001-03-14

It does absolutely no good to cry at work. All it manages to do is wet a desk or two. I mean, crying over things is generally OK. Crying over boys is par for the course. Crying at work over boys is deemed unprofessional in some circles, but understandable. Crying about work is fruitless and crying about work at work is doubly so.

That doesn't make me want to do it any less.

It is not nice, by the way, on days when there are layoff rumors floating about and I feel emotionally fragile, to receive cryptic email from someone you don't know in accounting asking you to confirm your legal name for them. (Casey has been a nickname since I was a baby, you see.) Turns out they were just processing the expense report I'd turned in for my trip in January, not cutting my final check as I'd imagined. Did that stop me from imagining the worst? No, it did not.

Like I mentioned in my last entry, It's been scary crazy at my place of employment, and not just because of the constant buzz that threatens (for real or for the sake of buzz) imminent collapse of the Internet industry. Feh. I'm pretty confident that my company will survive this bottoming out. (Not to sound to "Rah, team" about it -- cockroaches can survive a nuclear blast, but that doesn't mean they're the superior species.) However in the interim we're dealing with some clients who are scared for their lives. And scared clients are dangerous -- they kick like horses when they're threatened. Trust the man with a horseshoe-shaped bruise on his forehead. So life has not been fun and games, to say the least, especially after the Friday from Hell.

Thankfully I've managed to hold my tongue. Again. And Again. I continue to prove my own graceful, Jesus-like peace and ability to forgive, or at least the ability to delay talking shit about everyone until we're off the conference call.

The other extreme to crying at work, of course, is wanting to go out in a big way: to go down in flames and take clients out with me. I don't mean a Columbine style attack; sure, in the realm of fantasy, I've had those nasty thoughts of turning my life into a big game of Unreal Tournament, but I can't ever really see myself becoming unbalanced like that. No, what I really mean is a final screaming hissy fit where I read everyone the riot act, where armed guards have to come and escort me from the building, where people run from the room in tears, where businesses give up hope and fail on the spot at my condemnation of them, where words come out of my mouth so scathing that people have burn marks and scabs where they hit them.

It's getting crowded there in that fantasy realm, isn't it?

While we're talking about fantasy worlds...Just a note to the universe: cute UPS delivery guys are not supposed to stare back at me when I stare at them. That's just not fair. I'm supposed to have a sign that hovers invisibly over me saying "TAKEN" so people know that I'm just enjoying the scenery and have no intention of delivering any packages, if you know what I'm saying.

Or I could just be projecting. Wouldn't be the first time.

Took a busman's holday this weekend and actually finished Ultramundane, my little Weblog. There's much to still do. Much of the site needs to be recoded to refer to the right domain. I've got, at best, a pinky-hold on style sheets. I'm not really in the habit yet of writing down short pithy things as they occur to me. I certainly haven't had much time to troll the web for cool links. And the button on my flash animation looks like I made it for Pride Weekend. So you know what's gonna change first.

I do intend to maintain the diary as well as the blog, and hopefully get some stories or something up on the OTHER site. No, seriously. As I explained to the boyfriend the three are really designed for very different kinds of data -- there's a place for items which can be written in five minutes, which can be written in an hour, which take days to create -- obviously, you're looking at the middle one. We'll see how the reality of my schedule affects my choices on which one gets updated most frequently.

Date night with the Boyfriend was a night early this week, as a frantic friday last minute crisis got pushed out the door for dinner at 7. This really shouldn't be a problem. Normal people can plan for dinner at 7 after work. Normal people with normal jobs. Ah well, he loves me because I'm not normal, as maddening as that may be. He was also kind enough to allow me to drink enough Bombay Sapphire to diffuse the edge I'd developed after the day from hell and then drive me to a warm bed to sleep it off.

I woke up with a headache the next morning, but that hasn't been unusual. Apparantly some of the local flora ("I'm Flora!" "I'm Fauna!") seems to think it's spring already. The Roommate wrote a lovely and prosaic comment the other day about the light scent of Jasmine on the night air. Unfortunately that "light scent of jasmine" usually means it's time to start finding gravel under my eyelids. They'd better replace the ibuprofen in the first aid kit at work pretty soon.

I suggested replacing it with Bombay Sapphire, but Human Resources didn't seem to like that suggestion. I don't know why.

2003-03-29 - Moving Notice
2002-06-04 - Accordians and Ambassadors (Diary Fragment)
2002-05-24 - Manias (Diary Fragment)
2002-05-09 - See this little island here?
2002-04-24 - Bored and Drippy.