Happy 2005 to all! New Year’s Eve was pleasantly laid-back - we cooked some fantastic steaks, then watched Invader Zim while we ate. My admiration for Invader Zim was one of the things which attracted Alan to me in the first place (you know, besides my abundant charm, rapier wit and stunning appearance).
At midnight, live via the magic of television, we watched the peach drop in Underground Atlanta. The older I get, the less and less any gathering of that type appeals to me. I’m not sure why it ever did - crowds make me nervous and I’ve always been an alcohol magnet. Even when I’m not drinking, I come home from ball games, concerts and similar events utterly reeking of alcohol because some drunk, or drunks, or large group of drunks, or competing teams of drunks have chosen me to anoint with their adult beverages. How I ever convinced my mom to let me out of the house as a teenager is beyond me, because I’d come home from concert after concert covered in booze. Maybe by factoring out my allowance, she figured if I wound up wearing that much of it, I certainly couldn’t be drinking much. Which was true. Mostly.
The World's Greatest Boss proved his title by bringing me lunch today from the best barbecue joint in Atlanta, Harold's. Work has been very busy for the last couple of weeks, both because of shortened holiday weeks and because it’s year-end. Therefore, today I decided to make work even more exciting by creating a minor crisis. Part of my job is accounts payable, so after I finished cutting a bunch of checks and stuffing them in envelopes, I headed to the mail room to dump them off. Our mail room is also our file room; there were boxes all over the floor because the office supply company had delivered a huge order while we were in our weekly SAM (stupid-ass meeting) which Sheila hadn’t had time to sort away yet. I wound through the boxes a little way and then reached w-a-a-a-a-y over to put the mail in the outgoing tray - you know where this is going, right? - I couldn’t quite reach the tray, so I put the mail on top of the postage meter. And watched as several bills on the top of the stack slid off and fell, not toward me (of course not!) but backward, to lodge between the wall and the huge, oversized four-drawer lateral file cabinet which doubles as the mail sorting table.
It goes without saying that, while I wear hockey jerseys, football shirts and jeans to work not infrequently, today I was in total junior executive wear: high heels, stockings, silk skirt, light green stretchy top. Sighing, I started moving a bunch of heavy boxes out of the way, oddly not ruining my stockings. There was a metric ton of shipping supplies and packing materials stored in stacks, with the offending file cabinet and the one beside it holding them in place, so all that had to be relocated. At last I had a path to the wall, but realized there was no way I could move the huge file cabinet so I had to summon the boss. He took one look and called for our salesweasel. The two guys hefted the file cabinet away from the wall and the salesweasel retrieved the errant mailpieces. YAY! One certain friend of mine who thinks my boss is finer than frog hair will no doubt accuse me of doing this on purpose, so I could watch him bending over and flexing muscularly, being all manly and stuff. That is totally, categorically NOT TRUE. He isn’t even wearing the good Levi’s today.
MONTOYA DELENDA EST!
At midnight, live via the magic of television, we watched the peach drop in Underground Atlanta. The older I get, the less and less any gathering of that type appeals to me. I’m not sure why it ever did - crowds make me nervous and I’ve always been an alcohol magnet. Even when I’m not drinking, I come home from ball games, concerts and similar events utterly reeking of alcohol because some drunk, or drunks, or large group of drunks, or competing teams of drunks have chosen me to anoint with their adult beverages. How I ever convinced my mom to let me out of the house as a teenager is beyond me, because I’d come home from concert after concert covered in booze. Maybe by factoring out my allowance, she figured if I wound up wearing that much of it, I certainly couldn’t be drinking much. Which was true. Mostly.
The World's Greatest Boss proved his title by bringing me lunch today from the best barbecue joint in Atlanta, Harold's. Work has been very busy for the last couple of weeks, both because of shortened holiday weeks and because it’s year-end. Therefore, today I decided to make work even more exciting by creating a minor crisis. Part of my job is accounts payable, so after I finished cutting a bunch of checks and stuffing them in envelopes, I headed to the mail room to dump them off. Our mail room is also our file room; there were boxes all over the floor because the office supply company had delivered a huge order while we were in our weekly SAM (stupid-ass meeting) which Sheila hadn’t had time to sort away yet. I wound through the boxes a little way and then reached w-a-a-a-a-y over to put the mail in the outgoing tray - you know where this is going, right? - I couldn’t quite reach the tray, so I put the mail on top of the postage meter. And watched as several bills on the top of the stack slid off and fell, not toward me (of course not!) but backward, to lodge between the wall and the huge, oversized four-drawer lateral file cabinet which doubles as the mail sorting table.
It goes without saying that, while I wear hockey jerseys, football shirts and jeans to work not infrequently, today I was in total junior executive wear: high heels, stockings, silk skirt, light green stretchy top. Sighing, I started moving a bunch of heavy boxes out of the way, oddly not ruining my stockings. There was a metric ton of shipping supplies and packing materials stored in stacks, with the offending file cabinet and the one beside it holding them in place, so all that had to be relocated. At last I had a path to the wall, but realized there was no way I could move the huge file cabinet so I had to summon the boss. He took one look and called for our salesweasel. The two guys hefted the file cabinet away from the wall and the salesweasel retrieved the errant mailpieces. YAY! One certain friend of mine who thinks my boss is finer than frog hair will no doubt accuse me of doing this on purpose, so I could watch him bending over and flexing muscularly, being all manly and stuff. That is totally, categorically NOT TRUE. He isn’t even wearing the good Levi’s today.
MONTOYA DELENDA EST!
1 Comments:
That figures - ain't it the way it always goes. The alcohol question is answered by the fact that your mom always gets spilled upon too, so she naively assumed the same thing was happening to you. Plus we've been to some concerts together, and I've seen you get drenched.
Also, your mom, being old but not blind or stupid, agrees with your probably planning the whole deal just so you could watch WGB doing his MANly thing - even though it wasn't the GOOD Levi's.
mom
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Anonymous, at 4:45 PM
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