um, not so much
can't win for losing today.
arrived to work quasi-kinda-sorta-ontime, early for me, to a bosslady in a rancid mood. her last week, putting ducks in a row, bla bla bla, bitch bitch bitch. of course, as i'm the only guy in firing range, nothing was quite right. 'how come the chart in this tab is bigger than the chart on that tab! you messed up the formatting!' 'because you're viewing the one tab at 100% and one at 150%.' 'you never gave me the art for this order.' 'hmm. pretty sure i did.' 'it's not in my file. so you didn't.' oh. ok, your grand magical file filled with all the answers to life's great mysteries doesn't include something i gave you and you promptly lost. sorry. let me get on that.
got to the treadmill at lunch, and some frump was walking on wilma. at least it wasn't biceps, but still, i mean, if you have to use wilma, and her ipod / towel slot goodness, i can get over that she's not committed to me, but to walk on her? dude, go outside. you're pissing me off. fine. so i'm blasting cheesy dance music, on a competing treadmill, adjusting my towel over the display every 30 seconds, while trying to keep focused on mad about you on the monitor, until the power gets cut to the last four treadmills of each of the three rows. i nearly go flying (as did the power walking angry elderly lady) and i have no idea how far i've run or what is going to happen to jamie and paul when they go to yoko ono's apartment. argh! and just at that point, so help me, biceps comes in and throws me his nasty grin, and proceeds to do these pornographic stretch moves. so of course i have to go to a treadmill that DOES work and sprint just to be a prick. because i'm not petty or anything.
on the way out, i ask the too-happy club general manager what happened to the power on the 'cardio mezzanine.' 'oh, a little fuse glitch with the construction, but it's all good, bro! when the renovations are over, this place will be BETTER! THAN! EVER!'
oh. ok.
was looking forward to a badly-needed decompressing drink and chatting with runnerboy, but poor dear came down with bird flu or sars or something, so we had to reschedule. i had a lovely night of spaghettio's, cleaning up the flophouse, and suze orman on an audiobook. (marge got it for me as my alien-bump removal recovery gift. 'here! you're young and underpaid! let's listen together with the dogs. they like her.' 'now you're inflicting suze on me AND the dogs.' 'don't be fresh. if they had a 401k, they'd earn their keep with her advice. she's brilliant.' 'kinda stoned on pain killers.' 'it'll sink in over time. don't worry.'
man alive. tomorrow had better be better... or i'm writing a letter.
arrived to work quasi-kinda-sorta-ontime, early for me, to a bosslady in a rancid mood. her last week, putting ducks in a row, bla bla bla, bitch bitch bitch. of course, as i'm the only guy in firing range, nothing was quite right. 'how come the chart in this tab is bigger than the chart on that tab! you messed up the formatting!' 'because you're viewing the one tab at 100% and one at 150%.' 'you never gave me the art for this order.' 'hmm. pretty sure i did.' 'it's not in my file. so you didn't.' oh. ok, your grand magical file filled with all the answers to life's great mysteries doesn't include something i gave you and you promptly lost. sorry. let me get on that.
got to the treadmill at lunch, and some frump was walking on wilma. at least it wasn't biceps, but still, i mean, if you have to use wilma, and her ipod / towel slot goodness, i can get over that she's not committed to me, but to walk on her? dude, go outside. you're pissing me off. fine. so i'm blasting cheesy dance music, on a competing treadmill, adjusting my towel over the display every 30 seconds, while trying to keep focused on mad about you on the monitor, until the power gets cut to the last four treadmills of each of the three rows. i nearly go flying (as did the power walking angry elderly lady) and i have no idea how far i've run or what is going to happen to jamie and paul when they go to yoko ono's apartment. argh! and just at that point, so help me, biceps comes in and throws me his nasty grin, and proceeds to do these pornographic stretch moves. so of course i have to go to a treadmill that DOES work and sprint just to be a prick. because i'm not petty or anything.
on the way out, i ask the too-happy club general manager what happened to the power on the 'cardio mezzanine.' 'oh, a little fuse glitch with the construction, but it's all good, bro! when the renovations are over, this place will be BETTER! THAN! EVER!'
oh. ok.
was looking forward to a badly-needed decompressing drink and chatting with runnerboy, but poor dear came down with bird flu or sars or something, so we had to reschedule. i had a lovely night of spaghettio's, cleaning up the flophouse, and suze orman on an audiobook. (marge got it for me as my alien-bump removal recovery gift. 'here! you're young and underpaid! let's listen together with the dogs. they like her.' 'now you're inflicting suze on me AND the dogs.' 'don't be fresh. if they had a 401k, they'd earn their keep with her advice. she's brilliant.' 'kinda stoned on pain killers.' 'it'll sink in over time. don't worry.'
man alive. tomorrow had better be better... or i'm writing a letter.
posted by tom at 9:07 PM
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