For you, the dress code is casual.

Monday, June 11, 2007

The Rant that's Not Really a Rant

Here's the deal. I have two blogs, possibly more. Possibly secret-secret blogging offspring exist out in the world. And I hear tell that pigs could even fly. But that's besides the point.

Here's the deal. I have two-- Uh, right, the deal. I try not to write one thing and just sandwich it on each blog. I'd get more for my money and life would be simpler, but I'm Irish and we don't do simple. Except with the lowly potato. Simple = Potato, butter, cream, salt. Simple, therefore, = good.

Every now and then, I do write something that is reasonably good and the posting of it in both places either a) allows me to sit on my ass and watch Hell's Kitchen or b) might actually be something I think is worth reading, and given that I know there are certain people IRL** that could stand to read it.

I don't write about work. I never have. People know what I do -- ie, now: office manage at a school-type place -- and have in the past, too (captioning) but I never share specifics of any kind. Ain't yer bizniss.

The below is as close as I'll come. Or like this, one of my fave posts ever, about another bad day at work.


You know what part of the problem is? Huh?

My job. I have to be discreet. Can't tell ya nothin'. Can't gripe. People who write about their work are twits. That shit usually comes home to roost, so you gotta be prepared to sack up and own up to what you write. Or be like me. Say nada.

I said too much early in the game and now I'm hip to it. All hush-hush.

Today, though, was almost enough to break me. Crumble me to bits and spit me out like a bad cracker, man. That was how bad a Monday this Monday was. Ooh.

It started off: People leaving shit on my work desk -- incomplete things that I had to finish and "solve". But I was just pissy and it wouldn't have normally been a big thing. Until, that is, I proceeded to spill my coffee over the entire desk. And not one of those shitty from-the-canteen crap-ass weak coffees sanctioned by the work kitchen. No. This was a four-shot Americano.

Yeah. Four shots. Fuck that single/double stuff. I go hard, I go long. Actually, four shots is because Starbucks Ain't What It Used to Be (sorry, gb!) but I get three shots at the local Italian guy's shop. The guy's English is horrible, but the Americano's so beautiful it has head. Leave it to me to appreciate the head, all right?

And I spilled it. Over paycheques. Over sales slips. Over Every Fucking Thing on my Six Foot Long Desk.

Picture this: Me, frantic. "I need some help! Can someone come hold up my very expensive phone?!" I shouted into the packed lobby. Suddenly 3 moms are helping me as I try to sop up the eightyfuckingmillionzillionbadass ounces of woulda been soooo good coffee.

Needless to say, the day could only get better from there.

How much better, well... that's the debatable part. I'm not sure the judges would accept "neglibly" as an answer, but let's give that a go.

My day SUCKED ASS, man. Ha. Fortunately, and I'll bold it so you see it good, I still loves me job. If I knew all this shit, I'd still accept it.

After all... in the middle of all that crap and morass, there was a shining from-a-movie moment. A little boy came in and brought me a card: a photocopy of my picture in the paper, surrounded by little stars, and "steffani... you are a star" was what it said.

I know the mom made it and he just put the stickers on and signed his name, but it made my fucking day.

Tomorrow morning it goes on my fridge. For now, I'm drinking a blu-tini. Blueberry juice martini. It's the lime spritz that really makes it come together, but next time: lime cordial.


**("in real life")