|Oh, my cup of foolishness overflows...
||[Mar. 4th, 2011|04:21 pm]
Yeah, okay. I can stand no more foolishness this week. Yesterday I ground my gears trying to parse the difference between tactically managing business meetings and strategically managing business meetings. (Dude, you set up the meeting, you give them the parameters that need to be reported on, you make an agenda, you talk about the agenda.) I’m pretty sure that a business meeting is a tactic that is part of an overall strategy...|
I have been hammered all week by problems -- problems that, once solved, come back to bite me in the butt. "There! I've fixed your pricing. You will now get the most awesome price on this product EVAH!" Only for them to come back and say "oh, hai, but, so, we've been paying the bad price for six months since we opened this facility, so now that you've negotiated super duper low price, could you go back and tell the supplier we need that price retroactive?"
Or I tell them "Order this product until April 1 and then switch to this other product." and get back "Okay, have stopped ordering old product and placed order today for new product!"
And today I find myself staring at spreadsheets thinking “Wait, what am I supposed to be doing with this again?” Fried. Kentucky-Fried. Wickerman-Fried. Too Fried to complete a Fried Trilogy.
And I just stood in front of the printer, looking at a half a ream of paper, yanked open the printer paper drawer to find that some lazy half-wit had put in just enough paper to get their job done. The paper drawer holds a full ream of paper. The only difference between putting in the full ream and the half a ream is that with the half, you don’t have to reach your arm to the left to drop the ream wrapper into the recycle bin. Because that’s HARD, right?
Which is why I said, perhaps louder than was appropriate in an office situation “Oh, for expletive-that-begins-with-the-same-letter-as-fried sakes, could you get any lazier?”
So, I thought it would be best if I went back to my cube and isolated myself. Which was easy to do since this week I requested a sample laundry bag....and they sent me a case of a thousand. And I requested a single sleeve of domed lids for a plastic cup, which is about 100...and they sent me ten sleeves, or a thousand. I’m going to call my bank and request a dollar.
In the meantime, I am working within a fortress of cardboard boxes. And it's comforting.
This is some fierce writing. Raw. In both emotion and actual events. If you are easily sensitive or shocked...what the hell are you doing reading my journal?
Anyway, if you don’t think it is both funny and sad: “And if I want to have more kids, I’ll be into my forties. My ball sack will be full of Trig Palins.” This is not for you. There’s vomit and buttsex and stds. And dead mockingbirds. It ostensibly written by a man and a woman who alternate entries. I say ostensibly, not because I’m doubting either’s gender, but because I’m not entirely sure it’s two people. Or, maybe. Who knows. That’s part of the experience.
Filed under: More Things I Don’t Get
En croute. That’s food, usually meat, enclosed in a pastry shell. (Not pot pie, not pasties – that’s Cornish, not burlesque, or meat pies or stromboli – that’s more like STUFF packed in a crust. That makes sense. I’m talking about taking a perfectly beautiful piece of meat or fish – a beef tenderloin, a slab of salmon, a lovely little pork tenderloin. That would be just wonderful seared and roasted or pan-fried, naked, just wonderfully seasoned, au jus, or with a sauce, chutney, or something similar. And you’re going to take it, shove it inside pastry, perhaps shove some other stuff in side and bake it. I mean, admittedly, I look at it and think...well, that’s a gabillion extra calories I don’t need. Don’t get me wrong, I am all about gabillion calories. Having just made a crab, chive and mushroom in cream sauce over linguini last night. But if I’m going to eat a gabillion calories, by god, the taste had better be worth it. And most of the en croute I’ve eaten has very most certainly NOT. It’s not that it’s horrible...I just can’t help but think “this would have been tastier if they’d just seasoned the protein, pan-seared it and roasted it off.” And used the veg and other fillings in a nice pan sauce. I will let you enclose brie. Because I think Brie is a bit overrated, so putting it in a crust with some other stuff actually improves it.
Okay, this is the part where I say “Hey, I hate to be judgmental, but...” Except that you know better. The best I can say is “I am no more judgmental of others than I am of myself.” If you doubt me, let’s roll through my facebook pictures and listen to me explain why I’m surprised that I have enough self-esteem to go out in public. Because for every decent picture of me, there are dozens more where I think “wow, that makes me craptastic.” And my family makes photo albums where we purposely pick out horrendously embarrassing pictures and then caption them. So, let the judging begin: http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/2011/03/04/the-centaurs/
Madam, they do make bodices in larger sizes. If your boob has formed a baby arm in between your chest and actual arm, you need to think out of a much larger box, when it comes to fashion. And I do give the guy mad props for the costume. That’s awesome. I think, though, that you should discourage people from slipping dollar bills inside your arm band. Is that like a Centaur wedding thing? Because I don’t want to know how you’d pole dance with four legs. No wait. That’s a merry-go-round, isn’t it? Awesome. But it’s the daughter I most adore. Oh, I remember that – what part of a princess does standing around and have pictures taken over and over and over and Mo-ah-om, this dress is too big! And I’m hot and tired and...ah, not another picture...no more! Where’s that knight on horseback that will ride in and take me away to live in the castle, instead of trudging around this dusty, crappy Renfaire, stopping every two feet for a damn picture when I want to go see the JOUST. I’m never going ANYWHERE with my parents AGAIN.
And thanks to the Oatmeal, I now have my motto for the year: Less complaining, more sexy rumpus. http://theoatmeal.com/blog/valentines_day
Crap. Now, I want to put on footie pajamas, a gold crown and dance around proclaiming “Let the Sexy Rumpus Begin!”