I’ve come to work this morning wearing a mysterious Frenchman’s shirt, yesterday’s eyeliner, and no underwear.
Somehow, sitting in an ergonomic office chair at 9am just doesn’t seem to do any justice to last night.
06 August 2010
05 August 2010
My Employment Spirit Animal
Just so I don't forget to mention it, I’ll be guest-waitressing tonight for Café Gypsy, at the Lame Hotel (I think I previously had given it the moniker the “Lane Hotel,” but for my own amusement am henceforth referring to it as the “Lame Hotel”).
---
Today, yet another productive day at work, I decide to seek the identity of my employment spirit animal.
I press really hard on my LCD computer screen, watching the images gelatinize and throb into shape, using my seriously sleep-deprived trance to my advantage. What, oh, what will I see?
I am expecting to see a dolphin or Pembroke Welsh Corgi, or at least some sort of carbon-based organism—like a potato, for instance (I mean, I have tubers creeping and taking root all across downown Manhattan).
But from the crest of working 60+ hour weeks for a militant-hippie Frenchman (proving oxymorons do exist); to becoming gainfully unemployed; and now back to a nearly 60 hour workweek split between said militant-hippie Frenchman in the evening, ex-soviet-militant Ukrainians during the day, and a technicolor-hippie Indian on the weekends… my employment’s spirit animal is, disappointingly, a cosine wave.
Lame.
---
Today, yet another productive day at work, I decide to seek the identity of my employment spirit animal.
I press really hard on my LCD computer screen, watching the images gelatinize and throb into shape, using my seriously sleep-deprived trance to my advantage. What, oh, what will I see?
I am expecting to see a dolphin or Pembroke Welsh Corgi, or at least some sort of carbon-based organism—like a potato, for instance (I mean, I have tubers creeping and taking root all across downown Manhattan).
But from the crest of working 60+ hour weeks for a militant-hippie Frenchman (proving oxymorons do exist); to becoming gainfully unemployed; and now back to a nearly 60 hour workweek split between said militant-hippie Frenchman in the evening, ex-soviet-militant Ukrainians during the day, and a technicolor-hippie Indian on the weekends… my employment’s spirit animal is, disappointingly, a cosine wave.
Lame.
04 August 2010
30-Minute Spiels, with Rachel Ray
Besides the Ukrainians, I’m always the last person to arrive and the first person to leave the Badvertiser office. It’s funny though; I essentially adhere to a 9 to 5 schedule, so everyone else’s hours are somewhat of a mystery to me. I’m starting to wonder if they ever even leave.
At 5, as far as I’m concerned, my time’s up. This is what happened the other night, when the clock struck 5:
I wash out my coffee mug, properly shut down my computer, add a few rubber bands to my meager rubber band ball. I am ready for a drink. I decide to visit my roommate Betha at her restaurant, Mexicana Papa, which is right up the street from the Badvertiser office.
I order a seriously overpriced margarita (no free drinks for friends here), and since I’m planning on wheedling a free dinner from Café Gypsy later, I order some chips and salsa to quell my grumbling stomach. I’m pretty bored; Betha can’t really talk to me while she’s working under the militant manager here tonight. Maybe I should have just gone straight to Café Gypsy for freebies.
Next thing I know, Rachel Ray (identity protection be damned for you, Rachel Ray!) is sitting next to me at the bar with her husband. Betha had once mentioned to me that Rachel Ray comes in once a week—lives up the block. Just my luck that I’m here at this moment, sitting by myself at the bar next to my cooking show nemesis.
Rachel Ray clearly desires being noticed, as she dramatically fawns over one of the salsas that she ordered. If she comes here once a week, I’m sure it’s not the first time she’s tasted it. Way to be an attention whore.
I, in spite, haven’t yet acknowledged her presence. I nurse my beverage to make it last, staring at the grout in the tiled counter.
It’s about 6:00pm now, and I am ready to eat some dinner. Free dinner. I ask for my bill, which somehow ended up being $22. But just as I’m about to pay, Rachel Ray accosts me. “Sweetie, is that all you’re eating tonight?”
After years of working at Café Gypsy, I’ve become a patient conversationalist, especially with people with whom I have no desire to carry a conversation. “No,” I explained to Rachel Ray, “I’m going somewhere else for dinner. My roommate works—”
“Oh thank god, I was thinking to myself, ‘That poor girl, if that’s all she can afford for dinner, I wish I would have known and I would have bought her a meal! Good lord!”
“No, it’s not that, I just was coming in to grab a drink and I thought I’d—”
“The food here is just delicious, I was thinking to myself, ‘That girl can’t possibly be just having chips and that incredible salsa for dinner! In a heartbeat I would have pulled out my wallet and…’”
Okay, seriously, it’s not like I’m dressed in camouflage, holding a makeshift cardboard sign explaining my plight, sitting next to a big, bandana-wearing German Shepherd covered in cigarette ashes. But every time I try to interject, she keeps interrupting me with some spiel about what she thought was happening and how she, without hesitation, would have saved the fucking day. Thanks Rachel Ray. Thanks for bestowing your charity and graceful presence upon me, a lowly peasant of the world.
I didn’t know it was possible, but I do hate her more.
At 5, as far as I’m concerned, my time’s up. This is what happened the other night, when the clock struck 5:
I wash out my coffee mug, properly shut down my computer, add a few rubber bands to my meager rubber band ball. I am ready for a drink. I decide to visit my roommate Betha at her restaurant, Mexicana Papa, which is right up the street from the Badvertiser office.
I order a seriously overpriced margarita (no free drinks for friends here), and since I’m planning on wheedling a free dinner from Café Gypsy later, I order some chips and salsa to quell my grumbling stomach. I’m pretty bored; Betha can’t really talk to me while she’s working under the militant manager here tonight. Maybe I should have just gone straight to Café Gypsy for freebies.
Next thing I know, Rachel Ray (identity protection be damned for you, Rachel Ray!) is sitting next to me at the bar with her husband. Betha had once mentioned to me that Rachel Ray comes in once a week—lives up the block. Just my luck that I’m here at this moment, sitting by myself at the bar next to my cooking show nemesis.
Rachel Ray clearly desires being noticed, as she dramatically fawns over one of the salsas that she ordered. If she comes here once a week, I’m sure it’s not the first time she’s tasted it. Way to be an attention whore.
I, in spite, haven’t yet acknowledged her presence. I nurse my beverage to make it last, staring at the grout in the tiled counter.
It’s about 6:00pm now, and I am ready to eat some dinner. Free dinner. I ask for my bill, which somehow ended up being $22. But just as I’m about to pay, Rachel Ray accosts me. “Sweetie, is that all you’re eating tonight?”
After years of working at Café Gypsy, I’ve become a patient conversationalist, especially with people with whom I have no desire to carry a conversation. “No,” I explained to Rachel Ray, “I’m going somewhere else for dinner. My roommate works—”
“Oh thank god, I was thinking to myself, ‘That poor girl, if that’s all she can afford for dinner, I wish I would have known and I would have bought her a meal! Good lord!”
“No, it’s not that, I just was coming in to grab a drink and I thought I’d—”
“The food here is just delicious, I was thinking to myself, ‘That girl can’t possibly be just having chips and that incredible salsa for dinner! In a heartbeat I would have pulled out my wallet and…’”
Okay, seriously, it’s not like I’m dressed in camouflage, holding a makeshift cardboard sign explaining my plight, sitting next to a big, bandana-wearing German Shepherd covered in cigarette ashes. But every time I try to interject, she keeps interrupting me with some spiel about what she thought was happening and how she, without hesitation, would have saved the fucking day. Thanks Rachel Ray. Thanks for bestowing your charity and graceful presence upon me, a lowly peasant of the world.
I didn’t know it was possible, but I do hate her more.
03 August 2010
No Wonder They're On Sale
Today was a rather interny day for me, wandering around town, dropping off mail, buying coffee beans, and the like. It was lovely out, so I didn't mind doing grunt work outdoors.
One of my errands was to go to Millennium 22 to buy some discount dishware for the office. There, I found some plates with this sort of modern curly-cue design on it, thinking they would match some mugs that we already have. They were super affordable, seemed made-to-last, and were microwave-safe (great for Hot Pockets and other such office lunch fare).
I’m definitely not returning these. Pube plates are here to stay.
One of my errands was to go to Millennium 22 to buy some discount dishware for the office. There, I found some plates with this sort of modern curly-cue design on it, thinking they would match some mugs that we already have. They were super affordable, seemed made-to-last, and were microwave-safe (great for Hot Pockets and other such office lunch fare).
Here I am now, peeling off recalcitrant price stickers… and I start cracking up when I realize the curly-cue design looks a little, shall I say, pube-y?
02 August 2010
Happy Birthday to You, Mr. Bambino
Today is Lenny Bambino’s birthday.
Lenny embodies everything that is wrong with the Americans in this Ukrainian workplace—he has shiny white teeth and beady black pupils; a salesmanny voice which he uses loudly and often; a laughing-solely-at-your-expense sense of humor; and most abhorrently, a weird mustache.
But people seem to like him. Especially the other sales staff. They think he’s a really funny guy.
Let me recount the reasons why I am not one of these people.
Right after he first introduced himself to me, he asked me if I could refill the paper towels in the staff bathroom. This request in itself isn’t necessarily a reason to hate him; it’s just that the paper towel dispenser was actually full.
The second time he spoke to me, he said that the water that came out of the water cooler tasted like toilet water and that I should check the filter. Once again, a valid request… had the filter not just been changed.
The third time he spoke to me, we were in the elevator with two of the other sales executives. He asked me if I knew anything about what the company did. Amazingly, I rode out six more stories in that elevator without kicking him in his bambinos.
And Friday, when he left work, he went out of his way to say, “Good work, McQ.” Sarcasm, I’m sure, because I hadn’t even spoken to him on Friday. What. A. Jerk.
So today, as I said, is Lenny Bambino’s birthday. There was some talk about potential birthday treats amongst the sales staff (wait, you guys DON’T hate cupcakes and puppies and all that is good in this world?), but I suggested to my supervisor that if we start doing birthdays for one person, we then have to do birthdays for everyone. My supervisor agreed with me and vetoed the birthday treats for Lenny. Being Lenny's bitch isn't in my job description--though I suppose being a bitch to Lenny isn't in my job description either.
In any case, this is my birthday wish to you, Mr. Bambino! May frosting not glob up your weird mustache today! Happy fucking birthday!
Lenny embodies everything that is wrong with the Americans in this Ukrainian workplace—he has shiny white teeth and beady black pupils; a salesmanny voice which he uses loudly and often; a laughing-solely-at-your-expense sense of humor; and most abhorrently, a weird mustache.
But people seem to like him. Especially the other sales staff. They think he’s a really funny guy.
Let me recount the reasons why I am not one of these people.
Right after he first introduced himself to me, he asked me if I could refill the paper towels in the staff bathroom. This request in itself isn’t necessarily a reason to hate him; it’s just that the paper towel dispenser was actually full.
The second time he spoke to me, he said that the water that came out of the water cooler tasted like toilet water and that I should check the filter. Once again, a valid request… had the filter not just been changed.
The third time he spoke to me, we were in the elevator with two of the other sales executives. He asked me if I knew anything about what the company did. Amazingly, I rode out six more stories in that elevator without kicking him in his bambinos.
And Friday, when he left work, he went out of his way to say, “Good work, McQ.” Sarcasm, I’m sure, because I hadn’t even spoken to him on Friday. What. A. Jerk.
So today, as I said, is Lenny Bambino’s birthday. There was some talk about potential birthday treats amongst the sales staff (wait, you guys DON’T hate cupcakes and puppies and all that is good in this world?), but I suggested to my supervisor that if we start doing birthdays for one person, we then have to do birthdays for everyone. My supervisor agreed with me and vetoed the birthday treats for Lenny. Being Lenny's bitch isn't in my job description--though I suppose being a bitch to Lenny isn't in my job description either.
In any case, this is my birthday wish to you, Mr. Bambino! May frosting not glob up your weird mustache today! Happy fucking birthday!
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