Flames on the side of my face

I’m not that big a fan of Monty Python, but I do like to whistle and, most of the time, I try to look on the bright side of life. However, Saturday morning and this Monday morning I could really have used an extra dose of cheer-up-Charlie-ness (or Prozac).

We had a production release this weekend. What this means to anyone who isn’t sucked into this mad, mad (etc.) finance world is that all the problems on our website I helped find were fixed. But I had to come in Saturday morning to make sure the fixes weren’t just hypothetical, as well as to ensure nothing else broke in the process. It had to be a Saturday so that there would be ample oh-shit-this-didn’t-work-let’s-fix-it time before the client tried to access it on Monday morning. However, when I agreed to come in on Saturday morning, I didn’t realize I’d have to arrive at 7:15 IN THE UNGODLY A.M. But what could I say? “No, I’m sorry I can’t come in to help you. Yes, it’s true that I have about 15 minutes of actual work to do each day, but well, Saturday morning I have a date with a Mr. Pillow and shoot…I just can’t cancel.” And so I was the only one on the Tube at 6:45 (rightfully so), breaking the Sabbath for the greater mutual fund good.

Here’s where I’d like to tell you that I tested the shit out of those defects. That I swooped in, ran reports at the speed of light, wrote up a nice summary of my findings and was out of there by 10:30. Right. And immediately afterwards I found £500 on the sidewalk, got a call from Pierce Brosnan telling me he desperately wants to spoon, had that 7-inch growth spurt I’ve been waiting since 6th grade for, and found out that my dead cat Oscar isn’t really dead, he was just hiding under the sofa.

What REALLY happened is that the site didn’t work on my computer. (Not in general, just for this barely-awake, self-sacrificing toiler.) And then I spent 2 hours on the phone with the helpdesk who, in the end, declared it a “server issue” and transferred me to the “server helpdesk” which, imagine that, ISN’T OPEN ON THE WEEKEND. So I apologized profusely to C and M who were eagerly awaiting my test results. But instead of saying, “No problem, Lisa. I think you’re swell for waking up before sunrise. Please go buy yourself a pizza on the company. Oh, and say hi to Oscar for me,” here is what M said: “Do you think you could come in early Monday morning when the server is back up? I’d like to have the results for our 9 o’clock meeting.” Someone once told me it’s rude to say “Fuck that!” to your boss, so I opted for “Sure, no worries!” instead.

Fast forward to Monday morning. On the Tube (alone again) at 6:15. At work at 6:45. Punching my monitor in the face at 6:50 when I find it’s not a goddamn server problem, it’s a my-computer-is-a-piece-of-crap issue like I told that douchebag on the phone Saturday morning. 6:55 and I’m talking to the help desk again. After another hour and a half of IT guys fiddling about and more apologies to M, there’s an order in for a new computer for me set to arrive…Wednesday! I didn’t really know how to tell them that Wednesday would be a bit tardy for a 9:00 a.m. Monday morning meeting, so it came out as “Do you think could put a rush on it?” And wouldn’t you know? Wednesday is a rush. And don’t be all, “Lisa! How can you complain when you’re getting a brand new computer?” Because mark my words…when I get that new computer, I will lose all the important files I need from this ass-computer.

Okay, that’s it. I’m done whinging. Until they tell me to come in early again.

*music – The cafeteria’s got everything, It’s gonna drive me mad ‘Cause it looks just like this big Hawaiian party that my mother had, It’s like the worst Elvis film I’ve ever seen, Technicolor luau all in Technicolor green

No postage necessary

Dear City A.M. Newspaper,
Thank you for including the headline “She Hates You, Yeah Yeah Yeah” above the picture of Paul McCartney on his way into court. Tasteless, yet brilliant.
Your avid reader,
Lisa


Dear G,
I understand that yogurt is delicious. But please, can you keep the plastic container scraping at the end to a minimum? How many more spoonfuls are you going to get out of it? A half? This sound was annoying in the Boston office and it’s annoying here.
Your deskmate,
Lisa

Dear Brain,
Please don’t have another dream about Dan Andelman, the Phantom Gourmet food critic guy. That was beyond upsetting.
You,
Lisa

Dear Woman Fixing Her Wig on the Tube,
Next time don’t make it so blatantly obvious.
Your fellow commuter,
Lisa

Dear London Bus System,
I hate you.
Your mortal enemy,
Lisa

Dear Woolworths,
You’re a big conglomerate. I get it. What I don’t get is that you are not consistent with your wares. I can buy toilet paper in you in Plymouth Massachusetts and bananas in you in Sydney Australia. But in London you have neither of those things. So here’s what I need from you, Woolies. I need you to be more predictable with what you are selling so that I don’t get pissed off when I can’t find paper towels in you but am overwhelmed with children’s bicycles.
Your angry-yet-loyal consumer,
Lisa

Dear Grand Plaza Serviced Apartments,
Please do not feel that you are entitled to use the phrase *serviced apartment* in your name if you are not going to replenish my toilet paper supply. This almost led to a disaster last night and that is unacceptable.
Your perturbed-that-she-has-to-buy-her-own-toilet-paper-when-the-place-across-the-street-willingly-gave-her-more resident,
Lisa

Dear Big Toe on my Right Foot,
I don’t know what I did to you, but please stop hurting.
The rest of your body,
Lisa

Dear Whoever Just Set Off the Fire Alarm in my Building,
You suck.
Your bitter neighbor,
….Juanita Jones

Dear Readers of This Email/Blog,
Thank you for being understanding of my Negative Nelly-ness when I’m in a bad mood because I got lost yet AGAIN trying to take the bus home from about a mile away.
Yours truly,
Lisa