Office Mundanity (it's a word now) of the Day: Trying to figure out how many buttons I need to press on my phone to answer a call with my headset. "Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?" was overheard around my cubicle.
Dangerous Adventure of the Day: JPM carpool van trip to South Boston sans seat belt. Both ways!
Ballsy Wardrobe Choice of the Day: Red and black flannel lumberjack shirt. The fact that Amanda Bynes designed it and I purchased it for $6 at Building 19 1/3 helps.
Happy Surprise of the Day: Finding leftover Indian food is just as good the next day.
Music of the Day: Barenaked Ladies and one Lady Gaga song ("Honest Eyes")
Somewhat Embarrassing Moment of the Day: Being called out for picking a wedgie at work.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Reply to all
Tonight Jon and I talked a lot about work stuff. And it got me thinking. What do you think it would be like to be a CEO of a company or someone who is pretty high up in the org chart? Other than having people quiver when they get in the elevator with you, your life has got to be pretty cool. Specifically related to emails. I mean, I freak out and start sweating when I send emails to people two levels above me, let alone a CEO or managing director. How cool would it be if you knew that every email and spreadsheet you receive has been reviewed a million times for typos, alignment issues, and proper page numbers?
How many cute kitten picture forwards do you think JD (CEO) gets every day? Do you think he's tallied 577 years of bad luck for not passing on an email about a friend dying of cancer? And does he get the same spam emails trying to sell him electronic products that I do every day?
How many people have meant to email Helen an email about that hot guy in the tax department but instead have sent it to H (the second in command) instead? Did they send an apology email? Did they get fired?
All I'm saying is that my life would be a lot more efficient if every email and spreadsheet I was sent received the CEO treatment. No longer would I be preoccupied with finding the "they're their there" typos or worrying that when I print I'll get 18 pages instead of 1 because the page setup isn't set to "fit to 1" and in landscape mode.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Don't say Haman.
Is it a full moon? It's got to be. Because people are friggin' crazy today. Last week at work I obsessively flipped between People.com and Lifehacker.com to pass away the time. I was just bored to tears. And all of a sudden it's like I have no time to breathe. People in Edinburgh are yelling at me in emails, people in Luxembourg are laughing so hard on conference calls that they are snorting, and people in Boston are so stressed they're reclining in their chairs and splaying their limbs everywhere. It's all very distracting.
Chris Wyman is convinced that when Patrick Swayze dies, they will play a marathon of his movies. ALL his movies....not just the one good one. Which means that I will have to suffer through Point Break. Again. I, on the other hand, am pretty sure that TNT will only play Dirty Dancing. There's no denying it; it was a strange conversation to have.
Yesterday I went over to Theresa's house around 2:30 and left around 10:30. It's weird, but I think we paid the most attention to each other in the car to and from her house. When we went grocery shopping, we were concerned with why Stop & Shop doesn't carry Peter Pan peanut butter and whether or not to buy fat free mozzarella cheese or 2%. Then, when we got to her apartment, I was concerned with uploading my video to youtube (not successful) and she was preoccupied with taking a shower. And then we watched some tv while both playing on our own computers. So, not really paying attention to the tv or each other then either. We kinda glanced up as we ate our pizza, but not really. It's amazing how 8 hours can feel like only 2 when you're not paying attention to anything. This is why I feel like my weekend hasn't started yet. I want a do-over.
Now it's 8:08. I should be out listening to the Megillah and twirling my noisemaker while eating hamantashen. But I'm pretty sure sitting here drinking decaf coffee while checking blogs counts the same. Right? Right, God?
Friday, June 20, 2008
Jamie Lynn Spears' baby's daddy is a pipe layer. I am not making that up.
Not too much going on. And so a couple snippets will have to suffice on this going-to-be-excruciatingly-long Friday.
I went to see a showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at an outside venue near Tower Bridge this week. It was the first time I had been to an audience participation show, but it sure as heck won't be the last. Except next time I'll be dressing up; now I just have to decide whether to wear a gold sequined hat, a ratty maid outfit, or a corset with garter straps.
Yesterday I overheard someone at work saying they had made a "school boy error." I was left wondering if this meant they had blinded someone with a slingshot, pulled a girl's pigtails, or hid a frog in the teacher's desk.
Like I said, it's been slow going. In the meantime, here's a picture of G's desk to keep you entertained. (Please pay special attention to the "figurines" on his monitor stand.)
I went to see a showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at an outside venue near Tower Bridge this week. It was the first time I had been to an audience participation show, but it sure as heck won't be the last. Except next time I'll be dressing up; now I just have to decide whether to wear a gold sequined hat, a ratty maid outfit, or a corset with garter straps.
Yesterday I overheard someone at work saying they had made a "school boy error." I was left wondering if this meant they had blinded someone with a slingshot, pulled a girl's pigtails, or hid a frog in the teacher's desk.
Like I said, it's been slow going. In the meantime, here's a picture of G's desk to keep you entertained. (Please pay special attention to the "figurines" on his monitor stand.)
Monday, May 19, 2008
Who took Senator Kennedy to the laser show?
On my way into work this morning I saw a man wearing those zipper pants that can be made into instant shorts. I’m not sure what line of work this man is in that things would get so hectic and sweaty he would absolutely need to do away with half his pants to alleviate the situation. I will just go ahead and assume this man is a tool.
If you needed any more evidence that women are the most unreasonable, catty species on the face of the Earth, take the London Circle Line from Bayswater to Blackfriars any morning around 8:15 AM. It is here that you will see women, aged 21-35, push little children, step on grown men, and elbow the elderly all for the sake of being able to sit for their 21 minute train commute. If you had asked me a couple months ago who I thought the demographic is for Obnoxious, Selfish Train Commuters, I would have said obese people, male assholes, and tourists; I would not have been more wrong. It’s these yuppie, corporate females reading Nick Hornby books or checking their Blackberry that are the scum of the tube. They are devils in pants suits. And they will stop at nothing until their asses are firmly situated on those upholstered seats. I used to try to get a good ‘position’ on the train car in order to maximize seatage opportunity so I could go from standing to sitting in less than two stops. But seeing these savage animals tear each other’s heads and limbs off with nary a thought for anything but themselves has changed my way of thinking. I would rather stand for my 40 minute commute than be categorized as one of these self-obsessed biotches.
That is all.
If you needed any more evidence that women are the most unreasonable, catty species on the face of the Earth, take the London Circle Line from Bayswater to Blackfriars any morning around 8:15 AM. It is here that you will see women, aged 21-35, push little children, step on grown men, and elbow the elderly all for the sake of being able to sit for their 21 minute train commute. If you had asked me a couple months ago who I thought the demographic is for Obnoxious, Selfish Train Commuters, I would have said obese people, male assholes, and tourists; I would not have been more wrong. It’s these yuppie, corporate females reading Nick Hornby books or checking their Blackberry that are the scum of the tube. They are devils in pants suits. And they will stop at nothing until their asses are firmly situated on those upholstered seats. I used to try to get a good ‘position’ on the train car in order to maximize seatage opportunity so I could go from standing to sitting in less than two stops. But seeing these savage animals tear each other’s heads and limbs off with nary a thought for anything but themselves has changed my way of thinking. I would rather stand for my 40 minute commute than be categorized as one of these self-obsessed biotches.
That is all.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Tube delay due to a person UNDER a train
One of the perks of living and working in downtown London are the world movie premieres. Case in point - Sex And The City: The Movie last night in Leicester Square. Here is where I'd like to tell you that I was in the front row of the crowd, got autographs from SJP, Kim, Kristen, and Cynthia, and took amazing pictures that I will now sell to Hello! Magazine for oodles of cash. However, I'll opt to not lie and tell you that I made Yulia stand on some street corner with me for 35 minutes while the limos drove past and I tried to peer in the tinted windows to try to discern (to no avail) who it was. This got old quickly and Yulia was itching to be anywhere but there. In my defense, unless we had started queueing at noon for a 7:30 premier, there was no way we were going to get a glimpse of anyone; there was just an overwhelming amount of screaming girls and flamboyant guys. But honestly. For a show BASED IN NEW YORK whose title even includes a REFERENCE TO NEW YORK and a plot line that CENTERS AROUND NEW YORK, why oh why would someone choose to have a world premiere in London?! I am assuming money had something to do with it and that people aren't that dumb.
There was a big presentation at work last Friday for some big shot manager who is leaving the company. My friend K was in charge of organizing the card, gift, and presentation. So we're all standing around watching as this guy opens all 7 of his gifts (I told you he was important) and Aussie T says in front of everyone: "What about my idea for the gift, K? Is she not coming?" (This is the type of stuff I miss about the people from Australia.)
The problem with stopping at the bathroom before you go outside to read on your lunch break is that you're just the freak walking into the work bathroom with a book under your arm.
Joke of the day that is just so horrendous it has no choice but to be funny: What's green and sings rock 'n roll? Elvis Parsley
London's Crazy Headlines:
Stunning Results For Police Tasers
Bodies Of Two Babies Are Found In Toy Boxes
I Have Just Been Run Over By A Cow
There was a big presentation at work last Friday for some big shot manager who is leaving the company. My friend K was in charge of organizing the card, gift, and presentation. So we're all standing around watching as this guy opens all 7 of his gifts (I told you he was important) and Aussie T says in front of everyone: "What about my idea for the gift, K? Is she not coming?" (This is the type of stuff I miss about the people from Australia.)
The problem with stopping at the bathroom before you go outside to read on your lunch break is that you're just the freak walking into the work bathroom with a book under your arm.
Joke of the day that is just so horrendous it has no choice but to be funny: What's green and sings rock 'n roll? Elvis Parsley
London's Crazy Headlines:
Stunning Results For Police Tasers
Bodies Of Two Babies Are Found In Toy Boxes
I Have Just Been Run Over By A Cow
Friday, May 2, 2008
Tolerant and even welcoming of lactose
I’m trying to be a more positive person. The whole ‘say Yes more thing’ and an eye-opening email suggesting I try to talk my way through a misunderstanding instead of just sighing heavily and doing an obnoxious eye roll are just two changes I’m trying to make that show me I could use more than a slight nudge towards Let’s Be Awesome About Life and away from Let’s Make Snide, Sarcastic Comments About Things That Piss Me Off.
Having said that, this morning I came across a hilarious blog called 1000 Tiny Things I Hate. I highly recommend watching the video in post #101, or The Way The Man Who Sat Next To Me On The Train Last Night Ate His Peanuts. It’s even funnier than it sounds. Seriously, check this site out. I know I suggest a lot of things…books, movies, MUSIC…but this one is pretty damn funny. And plus, I know you don’t really need to check CNN.com for the 8th time today. Nothing has changed.
My co-worker BT sends me a link to some random online game pretty much every day. I’m not really sure how he finds them (his answer is always simply ‘RSS Feed’), and so far his success rate in me clicking on the link, giving more than 3 seconds of my attention to it, actually playing the game, and liking it enough to play it more than once is about 3 in 437. (He actually sent me a couple awesome typing games which appeal to the nerd in me and so I must thank him for that.) But the other day he sent me a link to a game whose objective was…. “Protect the castle from invasion by not allowing evil tiles to spread to it.” Evil tiles, BT. Evil tiles.
I know a lot of you have heard about my feelings behind the lobby security guards at the office in Boston. In fact, I wrote a little blurb about them and won some free milkshakes for my team (the point of the contest was to explain why my office deserved to win the shakes and I claimed security guard harassment entitled us to them). But let me tell you that the security guards in London have those Yankees beat by a long shot. Sure, we have those same turnstiles you have to swipe your card at in order to get through. And sure, we have the same sign-in book for Guests, Clients, and People Pretending To Be A Guest Or Client So They Can Enter The Building And Secretly Use Our Coffee Machine. But the actual security men...oh boy. Before you can even think about swiping your ID card, you have to first show it to them so they can see that yep, it’s your picture on there and yep, it’s my company's badge. Not that this isn’t enough craziness on its own, after all, it’s no small feat to gain building access on an ID card since it takes at least three weeks for an actual employee to get it. But the security guards, all three of them on a rotating schedule, act as though THEY HAVE NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE IN THEIR LIVES. I feel like I know their eating habits, the way they tie their shoes, and the names of their children, but they don’t recognize my face every morning? There was one day that one of them was logging someone into the guest book and I stupidly assumed I could just walk by without assuring them I wasn’t an employee from a different company in disguise. Oh he let me have it all right; he all but punched me in the face to prevent me from going through those turnstiles. And it’s not just a day-to-day thing, either. I’ll enter the building in the morning, smile, show them my chipmunk cheek-faced ID picture, go out for lunch later in the day, and when I come back am met with quizzing looks as if to say, “And who are you? Do you work for our company? I’m going to need to see some ID before I can let you in this building, Missy.”
How did I do on staying positive?
*music – Hey there I said it “I’m in love with you,” There’s an ocean between us just like me deep and blue, And I at times have had nothing, But tonight I want nothing but you
Having said that, this morning I came across a hilarious blog called 1000 Tiny Things I Hate. I highly recommend watching the video in post #101, or The Way The Man Who Sat Next To Me On The Train Last Night Ate His Peanuts. It’s even funnier than it sounds. Seriously, check this site out. I know I suggest a lot of things…books, movies, MUSIC…but this one is pretty damn funny. And plus, I know you don’t really need to check CNN.com for the 8th time today. Nothing has changed.
My co-worker BT sends me a link to some random online game pretty much every day. I’m not really sure how he finds them (his answer is always simply ‘RSS Feed’), and so far his success rate in me clicking on the link, giving more than 3 seconds of my attention to it, actually playing the game, and liking it enough to play it more than once is about 3 in 437. (He actually sent me a couple awesome typing games which appeal to the nerd in me and so I must thank him for that.) But the other day he sent me a link to a game whose objective was…. “Protect the castle from invasion by not allowing evil tiles to spread to it.” Evil tiles, BT. Evil tiles.
I know a lot of you have heard about my feelings behind the lobby security guards at the office in Boston. In fact, I wrote a little blurb about them and won some free milkshakes for my team (the point of the contest was to explain why my office deserved to win the shakes and I claimed security guard harassment entitled us to them). But let me tell you that the security guards in London have those Yankees beat by a long shot. Sure, we have those same turnstiles you have to swipe your card at in order to get through. And sure, we have the same sign-in book for Guests, Clients, and People Pretending To Be A Guest Or Client So They Can Enter The Building And Secretly Use Our Coffee Machine. But the actual security men...oh boy. Before you can even think about swiping your ID card, you have to first show it to them so they can see that yep, it’s your picture on there and yep, it’s my company's badge. Not that this isn’t enough craziness on its own, after all, it’s no small feat to gain building access on an ID card since it takes at least three weeks for an actual employee to get it. But the security guards, all three of them on a rotating schedule, act as though THEY HAVE NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE IN THEIR LIVES. I feel like I know their eating habits, the way they tie their shoes, and the names of their children, but they don’t recognize my face every morning? There was one day that one of them was logging someone into the guest book and I stupidly assumed I could just walk by without assuring them I wasn’t an employee from a different company in disguise. Oh he let me have it all right; he all but punched me in the face to prevent me from going through those turnstiles. And it’s not just a day-to-day thing, either. I’ll enter the building in the morning, smile, show them my chipmunk cheek-faced ID picture, go out for lunch later in the day, and when I come back am met with quizzing looks as if to say, “And who are you? Do you work for our company? I’m going to need to see some ID before I can let you in this building, Missy.”
How did I do on staying positive?
*music – Hey there I said it “I’m in love with you,” There’s an ocean between us just like me deep and blue, And I at times have had nothing, But tonight I want nothing but you
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tiny kitten lips
Here’s a sure way of making new friends at work. Get into an elevator with 5 other people. When the doors open at your floor, immediately press Door Close thinking it’s Door Open and you’re being chivalrous. That’ll be a real hoot.
The 60-something man in front of me in line at the library checked out two books – The Devil Wears Prada and a Guide to Birdwatching. It’s gonna be a big weekend for him.
Right. So about that library. No, the other one…The London Library. I went on a tour on Saturday and, call me a nerd, but it was really interesting! Here are some facts you can use at your next party that are guaranteed to make you cooler:
- It’s the world’s largest independent lending library due to the fact that it retains every book it’s ever received.
- Its president is Tom Stoppard and its patron (whatever that means) is the Queen.
- The dates of the books go all the way back to the 1500’s (I’m guessing these are books such as The Pro’s and Cons of Wearing Poofy Skirts, Christopher Columbus Explored My Body (And other short stories), and Places That Haven’t Yet Been Made British Colonies).
- They don’t use the Dewey Decimal System; all their books are shelved alphabetically. They, and I, think this is cool because it really lets you see the depth of their collection; while browsing for Death (because who hasn’t done that before?), you also might come across Demons or Dentistry.
- Because it is not funded by the government you must pay a membership fee to use the library. This I can understand. What I can’t understand are the exorbitant fees. To use the library for a day it will cost you $20; for a week, $60. But here’s the kicker. You can buy a lifetime membership which will obviously vary in cost depending on how old you are when you purchase one. If you are between the ages of 18 and 25, it will cost you….$32,000 to become a member of the London Library!! I’m pretty sure you could buy all the books you’ll ever want for less than this; and if you’re using the library for research purposes, I’ll bet throwing in the cost of buying someone else’s research papers would also cover it. Yikes!
- Past members have included Charles Darwin, Arthur Conan Doyle, George Bernard Shaw, Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf, Agatha Christie, and William Makepeace (I don’t actually know who this is, but I like his name)
I swear, if they claim that the Austrian incest guy is insane and cannot be held responsible for his actions, I will fly there myself and shoot him in the face. This is a promise. (And not that I agree with Perez Hilton on everything, but he hit the nail right on the head when he said the guy looks like Donald Sutherland. Creepy.)
*music – Dana Andrews said prunes gave him the runes, And passing them used lots of skills But when worlds collide said George Pal to his bride, I’m gonna give you some terrible thrills
The 60-something man in front of me in line at the library checked out two books – The Devil Wears Prada and a Guide to Birdwatching. It’s gonna be a big weekend for him.
Right. So about that library. No, the other one…The London Library. I went on a tour on Saturday and, call me a nerd, but it was really interesting! Here are some facts you can use at your next party that are guaranteed to make you cooler:
- It’s the world’s largest independent lending library due to the fact that it retains every book it’s ever received.
- Its president is Tom Stoppard and its patron (whatever that means) is the Queen.
- The dates of the books go all the way back to the 1500’s (I’m guessing these are books such as The Pro’s and Cons of Wearing Poofy Skirts, Christopher Columbus Explored My Body (And other short stories), and Places That Haven’t Yet Been Made British Colonies).
- They don’t use the Dewey Decimal System; all their books are shelved alphabetically. They, and I, think this is cool because it really lets you see the depth of their collection; while browsing for Death (because who hasn’t done that before?), you also might come across Demons or Dentistry.
- Because it is not funded by the government you must pay a membership fee to use the library. This I can understand. What I can’t understand are the exorbitant fees. To use the library for a day it will cost you $20; for a week, $60. But here’s the kicker. You can buy a lifetime membership which will obviously vary in cost depending on how old you are when you purchase one. If you are between the ages of 18 and 25, it will cost you….$32,000 to become a member of the London Library!! I’m pretty sure you could buy all the books you’ll ever want for less than this; and if you’re using the library for research purposes, I’ll bet throwing in the cost of buying someone else’s research papers would also cover it. Yikes!
- Past members have included Charles Darwin, Arthur Conan Doyle, George Bernard Shaw, Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf, Agatha Christie, and William Makepeace (I don’t actually know who this is, but I like his name)
I swear, if they claim that the Austrian incest guy is insane and cannot be held responsible for his actions, I will fly there myself and shoot him in the face. This is a promise. (And not that I agree with Perez Hilton on everything, but he hit the nail right on the head when he said the guy looks like Donald Sutherland. Creepy.)
*music – Dana Andrews said prunes gave him the runes, And passing them used lots of skills But when worlds collide said George Pal to his bride, I’m gonna give you some terrible thrills
Monday, April 21, 2008
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
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
Thursday, April 17, 2008
12 eggs for $6
T gave me a word of warning the other day when I told him I brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. “You should say ‘peanut butter and jam’ or else people will think you’re eating peanut butter and jello.” So yeah. Apparently jelly = jello. (I actually should have known this already from The Office where Tim puts Gareth’s stapler in a ‘jelly’ mold. I guess I forgot. Oops.)
I don’t know what people are eating at work. Whatever it is, they are re-heating it in the microwave and making the kitchen smell like a used Port-O-Potty. It makes shrimp fried rice-scented microwaves seem like a godsend.
Things to acquire upon my return to Boston: coffee maker, cat
(If anyone has any awesome cat name suggestions, please send them my way. Or coffee maker names for that matter.)
Yesterday morning two people were standing on some train tracks in London ‘having a row’ (i.e. fighting). (Why they picked train tracks as the ideal place for a fight I’ll never know.) Well. The argument got so heated that they didn’t see or hear the train barreling down the tracks towards them at 80 miles an hour. So it hit them. And they died.
*music – I’m writing pop songs Done it for so long Sometimes I dream about a chorus That’s so clever it’s dumb
I don’t know what people are eating at work. Whatever it is, they are re-heating it in the microwave and making the kitchen smell like a used Port-O-Potty. It makes shrimp fried rice-scented microwaves seem like a godsend.
Things to acquire upon my return to Boston: coffee maker, cat
(If anyone has any awesome cat name suggestions, please send them my way. Or coffee maker names for that matter.)
Yesterday morning two people were standing on some train tracks in London ‘having a row’ (i.e. fighting). (Why they picked train tracks as the ideal place for a fight I’ll never know.) Well. The argument got so heated that they didn’t see or hear the train barreling down the tracks towards them at 80 miles an hour. So it hit them. And they died.
*music – I’m writing pop songs Done it for so long Sometimes I dream about a chorus That’s so clever it’s dumb
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Honky Tonk Badonkadonk
It’s an actual country song. Trace Adkins. The man is pure genius.
Here’s a sure-fire way of freaking me out:
Step 1 – Go into the stall all the way at the end of the bathroom.
Step 2 – Be very quiet so as to make me think there’s no one else in the bathroom.
Step 3 – Wait until I’ve gone into a stall and locked the door, wait 10 more seconds, and then start speaking Russian to someone on a cell phone? Yourself? No one? in a very loud voice.
The London papers were keen on reporting about a 101-year-old man, Buster Martin, who was planning on running the marathon yesterday, breaking the world record for oldest person to successfully run the 26.2 mile race (he was hoping to do it in under 14 hours but actually completed it in a little over 10). But oh what a scandal! This morning the papers followed up with breaking news that Buster was a fraud and he’s really only 94 years old. That fucking a-hole! No one cares about a mere 94-year-old man running a marathon! What do you take us for, sir, fools? We won’t stand for it! Talk to us when you’re 101 and MAYBE we’ll be impressed. MAYBE.
Words of wisdom from Sylvia Mon:
"Never go on the London Eye when it's hot out and especially when filled with children. They don't have any air circulation and even though it moves very VERY slowly, the children will still vomit."
I am materialistic. I would hope if you’re reading this, you know this by now. Last week I bought a Freitag bag. Yeah, I hadn’t heard of them either. But I was shown the light way back in 2004 in my Intro to Design class at Northwestern. Someone brought one into class as their example of an item that was designed well. They are designer, Swiss bags made from bicycle tires, car seat belts, and semi truck tarps. Depending on what design you get, the tarp might look dirty from all the acid rain and dirt whatnot, but I think it’s all part of what makes them so cool. It took me about 5 man hours to pick out what style and color design I wanted, and in the end I chose the Knightrider. It doubles as a ‘fanny’ pack so I will further be made fun of I’m sure, but at least now I’ll have a little more style when it happens. Check their stuff out at www.freitag.ch. Here’s a picture of my new baby:
*music – And ooo-wee, shut my mouth, slap your grandma There outta be a law, get the sheriff on the phone Lord have mercy, how she even get them britches on
(Yes, that’s Trace talking about said badonkadonk)
Here’s a sure-fire way of freaking me out:
Step 1 – Go into the stall all the way at the end of the bathroom.
Step 2 – Be very quiet so as to make me think there’s no one else in the bathroom.
Step 3 – Wait until I’ve gone into a stall and locked the door, wait 10 more seconds, and then start speaking Russian to someone on a cell phone? Yourself? No one? in a very loud voice.
The London papers were keen on reporting about a 101-year-old man, Buster Martin, who was planning on running the marathon yesterday, breaking the world record for oldest person to successfully run the 26.2 mile race (he was hoping to do it in under 14 hours but actually completed it in a little over 10). But oh what a scandal! This morning the papers followed up with breaking news that Buster was a fraud and he’s really only 94 years old. That fucking a-hole! No one cares about a mere 94-year-old man running a marathon! What do you take us for, sir, fools? We won’t stand for it! Talk to us when you’re 101 and MAYBE we’ll be impressed. MAYBE.
Words of wisdom from Sylvia Mon:
"Never go on the London Eye when it's hot out and especially when filled with children. They don't have any air circulation and even though it moves very VERY slowly, the children will still vomit."
I am materialistic. I would hope if you’re reading this, you know this by now. Last week I bought a Freitag bag. Yeah, I hadn’t heard of them either. But I was shown the light way back in 2004 in my Intro to Design class at Northwestern. Someone brought one into class as their example of an item that was designed well. They are designer, Swiss bags made from bicycle tires, car seat belts, and semi truck tarps. Depending on what design you get, the tarp might look dirty from all the acid rain and dirt whatnot, but I think it’s all part of what makes them so cool. It took me about 5 man hours to pick out what style and color design I wanted, and in the end I chose the Knightrider. It doubles as a ‘fanny’ pack so I will further be made fun of I’m sure, but at least now I’ll have a little more style when it happens. Check their stuff out at www.freitag.ch. Here’s a picture of my new baby:
*music – And ooo-wee, shut my mouth, slap your grandma There outta be a law, get the sheriff on the phone Lord have mercy, how she even get them britches on(Yes, that’s Trace talking about said badonkadonk)
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Enormously tight
Sometimes on my way to work I’ll play the Peter Gunn theme on my mp3 player and pretend like I work as a secret agent or some other kind of job that’s really important and sinisterly cool. It makes my day a little more awesome.
I’m not sure if he’s still trying to make his way onto my blog since he’s no longer in London, but in any case, here’s what my dad had to say on the phone the other day (I told you he was obsessed with hippos):
“There’s all types of poo, but hippo poo is not the kind you wanna deal with.”
It’s helpful to know that few food items exist in nature that are naturally blue. That way, if just before you bite into a chicken salad sandwich you see something small and blue, you know that it shouldn’t be there and it’s okay to go ahead and pick that shit out.
Overheard at work:
“Motorcycles are more expensive than children.”
“Yeah, but they’re more fun.”
This weekend around the city of London I saw references to Lendlease, Old Mutual, and F&C (which was actually advertised on the side of a cab), inducing BBH mutual fund flashbacks to memories I thought I had sufficiently blocked from my mind. Then I later saw the Blackrock office and it took all my strength not to go inside and give them a piece of my mind for leaving a million voicemails on my work phone telling me “the transmission didn’t go through last night.” Right. Because I’m responsible for that.
I carry a little CVS notebook around with me wherever I go to write down the funny things people say about children and motorcycles, music I want to download, and the things Graham does. Apparently Susan got a hold of my notebook while we were in Ireland and left me a nice little note that I actually found while she was still here, but decided not to write about until I got to the actual page in the notebook:
“You are short and an idiot. I love you! Susan (your best friend)”
It just warms your heart, doesn’t it?
*music – I love the way she bites her lip, I love the way she shakes them hips, I love the way she makes me drool, I think that she is beautiful
I’m not sure if he’s still trying to make his way onto my blog since he’s no longer in London, but in any case, here’s what my dad had to say on the phone the other day (I told you he was obsessed with hippos):
“There’s all types of poo, but hippo poo is not the kind you wanna deal with.”
It’s helpful to know that few food items exist in nature that are naturally blue. That way, if just before you bite into a chicken salad sandwich you see something small and blue, you know that it shouldn’t be there and it’s okay to go ahead and pick that shit out.
Overheard at work:
“Motorcycles are more expensive than children.”
“Yeah, but they’re more fun.”
This weekend around the city of London I saw references to Lendlease, Old Mutual, and F&C (which was actually advertised on the side of a cab), inducing BBH mutual fund flashbacks to memories I thought I had sufficiently blocked from my mind. Then I later saw the Blackrock office and it took all my strength not to go inside and give them a piece of my mind for leaving a million voicemails on my work phone telling me “the transmission didn’t go through last night.” Right. Because I’m responsible for that.
I carry a little CVS notebook around with me wherever I go to write down the funny things people say about children and motorcycles, music I want to download, and the things Graham does. Apparently Susan got a hold of my notebook while we were in Ireland and left me a nice little note that I actually found while she was still here, but decided not to write about until I got to the actual page in the notebook:
“You are short and an idiot. I love you! Susan (your best friend)”
It just warms your heart, doesn’t it?
*music – I love the way she bites her lip, I love the way she shakes them hips, I love the way she makes me drool, I think that she is beautiful
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Your Awesomeness Knows No Bounds
Overheard at work: (in a hushed whisper) “This system scares the living shit out of me.”
*And just for the record, none of our computer systems are THAT scary. Obsolete? Yes. Scary? No.
This morning on my run the coolest thing ever happened. The street cleaning go-cart dude that I pass by every day honked at me and waved. He knows me! Okay, maybe to you it won’t seem so cool, but I feel loved.
I tried making brownies using my microwave oven/oven. I’m not sure who the geniuses behind this contraption are, but they should seriously be shot in the groin. It worked about as well as you would think a microwave would work as an oven. I had no idea what temperature it was set at, nor how long to bake it. When the chocolate pretty much started boiling on top I decided maybe it was done. So I took it out, let it cool, and then tried to cut into it. Other than perhaps shrimp, chopped liver, and pork chops, I’ll eat anything…but my friends, I could NOT. Eat. THIS. It was deceivingly delicious looking, as the top remained the color of “normal looking brownies.” However, the inside was “none more black” and tasted like a pair of pants (the trouser kind, not the underpants kind). I tried so hard to get past the gagging, but alas, in the end I just had to do the right thing and throw them away. I’m writing a letter to management demanding a real oven and a tray of brownies.
Last night we had to take the Tube to get to the kosher restaurant in Marylebone. So we’re walking up Oxford Street around 5:45 (prime rush hour of both business people and heinous tourists), it’s raining, my parents are hungry, and we’re not ENTIRELY sure where we’re going (and by ‘we,’ I mean ‘I’). We finally make it to the Oxford Circus Tube, but there is a huge throng of people trying to get in. We’re at the front of the pack shuffling our way to the entrance when they close the doors and say that we have to wait awhile due to overcrowding. And so there we are squished in amongst everyone – a little girl holding a map in her hand, a tiny woman holding a duck umbrella clutching both her bags to her chest so that grabby hands don’t grab, and an Orthodox Jew who decides that NOW is the best time to make a joke, loudly saying for everyone to hear, “Lisa, tell them you have to get home to feed your cat.”
Here’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid that while I mock my dad’s sense of humor, that I have actually inherited it and am turning into the same person. (Minus the beard. So far.)
*And just for the record, none of our computer systems are THAT scary. Obsolete? Yes. Scary? No.
This morning on my run the coolest thing ever happened. The street cleaning go-cart dude that I pass by every day honked at me and waved. He knows me! Okay, maybe to you it won’t seem so cool, but I feel loved.
I tried making brownies using my microwave oven/oven. I’m not sure who the geniuses behind this contraption are, but they should seriously be shot in the groin. It worked about as well as you would think a microwave would work as an oven. I had no idea what temperature it was set at, nor how long to bake it. When the chocolate pretty much started boiling on top I decided maybe it was done. So I took it out, let it cool, and then tried to cut into it. Other than perhaps shrimp, chopped liver, and pork chops, I’ll eat anything…but my friends, I could NOT. Eat. THIS. It was deceivingly delicious looking, as the top remained the color of “normal looking brownies.” However, the inside was “none more black” and tasted like a pair of pants (the trouser kind, not the underpants kind). I tried so hard to get past the gagging, but alas, in the end I just had to do the right thing and throw them away. I’m writing a letter to management demanding a real oven and a tray of brownies.
Last night we had to take the Tube to get to the kosher restaurant in Marylebone. So we’re walking up Oxford Street around 5:45 (prime rush hour of both business people and heinous tourists), it’s raining, my parents are hungry, and we’re not ENTIRELY sure where we’re going (and by ‘we,’ I mean ‘I’). We finally make it to the Oxford Circus Tube, but there is a huge throng of people trying to get in. We’re at the front of the pack shuffling our way to the entrance when they close the doors and say that we have to wait awhile due to overcrowding. And so there we are squished in amongst everyone – a little girl holding a map in her hand, a tiny woman holding a duck umbrella clutching both her bags to her chest so that grabby hands don’t grab, and an Orthodox Jew who decides that NOW is the best time to make a joke, loudly saying for everyone to hear, “Lisa, tell them you have to get home to feed your cat.”
Here’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid that while I mock my dad’s sense of humor, that I have actually inherited it and am turning into the same person. (Minus the beard. So far.)
Thursday, March 20, 2008
$4000 million
Sometimes it’s impossible to tell when you have that thin peanut shell stuck in your teeth.
I saw two people hug at work yesterday. I was totally shocked, which only leads me to conclude that people don’t hug in the office nearly enough as they should. That’s it. From now on I’m starting each day by hugging a different co-worker. Obviously I’m going to start with G; he’s cozy looking. I will keep you posted on how this goes…Mom and Dad, please have bail money ready.
Joke of the day: What is the difference between a well-dressed man and a tired dog?
One wears a suit, and the other? Just pants.
Nothing big and different in London for Easter. There are still bunnies, Cadbury Crème Eggs, and cellophane everywhere. Not to mention a severe lack of hamantaschen. But what is glorious about this holiday, other than the pastel M&M’s, is that we not only get Good Friday off, we also get “Easter Monday” as a bank holiday. Sidenote – I think I’m going to start using ‘good Friday!’ as an exclamation the same way I’m trying to incorporate ‘sweet potatoes!’ into my daily vocabulary as a phrase of delight.
Did anyone else have an electric blue spandex unitard that they insisted on wearing in public at all times growing up? No? Just me? Okay…just checking.
Corduroys are awesome. But they would be a whole lot awesomer if they didn’t make that swish-swish sound every time I walk somewhere.
Yesterday my company threw a welcome lunch in honor of the London office consolidation. I thought it was going to be a sit-down event but it turned out to be a socializing, mosey-ing, walk around type of deal. But the best part, other than the cake, was the finger sandwiches. They even cut the crusts off! It was all very British. (I didn’t really socialize, either. Everyone looked too prim and proper in their suits and whatnot and I had too many sandwiches to eat.)
I think I need to start hanging out with terrorists more. It’s really hard to get a cell phone without some sort of proof of residency. So how do those terrorists do it? I’ll bet the shoe bomber never had to show a utility bill to get unlimited text messages…
Apparently, a dead giveaway for an American in London is a Nalgene bottle.
I’m pretty sure I was the only one at last night’s symphony concert who still had all their own teeth.
Am I too all over the place with my thoughts? I try to pick a good topic but then I get distracted and move on to other things. I mean, I guess I could elaborate on all the old people’s teeth but I’m guessing it wouldn’t be all that enthralling. Well, maybe to some it would be, but those aren’t the type of people I want to be friends with anyway. Sorry.
I saw two people hug at work yesterday. I was totally shocked, which only leads me to conclude that people don’t hug in the office nearly enough as they should. That’s it. From now on I’m starting each day by hugging a different co-worker. Obviously I’m going to start with G; he’s cozy looking. I will keep you posted on how this goes…Mom and Dad, please have bail money ready.
Joke of the day: What is the difference between a well-dressed man and a tired dog?
One wears a suit, and the other? Just pants.
Nothing big and different in London for Easter. There are still bunnies, Cadbury Crème Eggs, and cellophane everywhere. Not to mention a severe lack of hamantaschen. But what is glorious about this holiday, other than the pastel M&M’s, is that we not only get Good Friday off, we also get “Easter Monday” as a bank holiday. Sidenote – I think I’m going to start using ‘good Friday!’ as an exclamation the same way I’m trying to incorporate ‘sweet potatoes!’ into my daily vocabulary as a phrase of delight.
Did anyone else have an electric blue spandex unitard that they insisted on wearing in public at all times growing up? No? Just me? Okay…just checking.
Corduroys are awesome. But they would be a whole lot awesomer if they didn’t make that swish-swish sound every time I walk somewhere.
Yesterday my company threw a welcome lunch in honor of the London office consolidation. I thought it was going to be a sit-down event but it turned out to be a socializing, mosey-ing, walk around type of deal. But the best part, other than the cake, was the finger sandwiches. They even cut the crusts off! It was all very British. (I didn’t really socialize, either. Everyone looked too prim and proper in their suits and whatnot and I had too many sandwiches to eat.)
I think I need to start hanging out with terrorists more. It’s really hard to get a cell phone without some sort of proof of residency. So how do those terrorists do it? I’ll bet the shoe bomber never had to show a utility bill to get unlimited text messages…
Apparently, a dead giveaway for an American in London is a Nalgene bottle.
I’m pretty sure I was the only one at last night’s symphony concert who still had all their own teeth.
Am I too all over the place with my thoughts? I try to pick a good topic but then I get distracted and move on to other things. I mean, I guess I could elaborate on all the old people’s teeth but I’m guessing it wouldn’t be all that enthralling. Well, maybe to some it would be, but those aren’t the type of people I want to be friends with anyway. Sorry.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Another thing about Gary Busey other than his teeth that creeps me out
Well it’s official – my world has come crashing down. I can no longer access Perez Hilton on my work computer. How will I survive you ask? I don’t know. I just. Don’t. Know.
So this guy at work, I don’t know his name so let’s call him Red, finds this gift bag under his desk this morning. He reaches into it, pulls out a pair of pink, fuzzy handcuffs and asks the office if they belong to anyone. He’s holding them with his pinky finger as if they are just covered in gonorrhea and syphilis (which, who are we kidding, it’s a corporate London office so they probably are) and is giggling like a little girl. I’m not really sure what to do or say at this point because I’ve never even thought about being in this situation before, let alone actually experience it. In hindsight, I should have said something clever like “Actually, the janitor mentioned to me yesterday that her pair went missing” or “Those are mine! I like to be naughty while I create my pivot tables” or “Well, they’re certainly not Graham’s…his pair has a ketchup stain on it.” Instead I just sat there and giggled too, probably just as appropriate a reaction.
I was talking to this British lady on the phone today and she said “You’re a star” and “You’re an angel” all within a span of 15 seconds. You have no idea how special I felt when I hung up. I am invincible!!! (Or people are just really polite here.)
Okay, so maybe you know that I have an uncanny ability to win things. Some people think I’m just lucky. But really, I think it just boils down to the fact that I enter EVERY CONTEST KNOWN TO MAN. So why should it be any different just because I’m a million miles from home? (I like to say a million miles because I don’t actually know how many miles it is.) Today I won a pair of tickets to go to the NME Music Awards and Afterparty on Thursday night. Granted I’ve never even heard of this award show, but I have heard of some of the bands performing – The Kaiser Chiefs, My Chemical Romance, and Arctic Monkeys to name a few. Plus, they could have offered me tickets to the Whale Awards and I would have jumped out of my pants with excitement. Needless to say, I’m pumped for it! This will be my first awards show so I’m trying to plan my outfit accordingly. I think I’ll fit in pretty well if I wear a dress suit with pantyhose; it’ll be perfect if I get caught up in a mosh pit.
So this guy at work, I don’t know his name so let’s call him Red, finds this gift bag under his desk this morning. He reaches into it, pulls out a pair of pink, fuzzy handcuffs and asks the office if they belong to anyone. He’s holding them with his pinky finger as if they are just covered in gonorrhea and syphilis (which, who are we kidding, it’s a corporate London office so they probably are) and is giggling like a little girl. I’m not really sure what to do or say at this point because I’ve never even thought about being in this situation before, let alone actually experience it. In hindsight, I should have said something clever like “Actually, the janitor mentioned to me yesterday that her pair went missing” or “Those are mine! I like to be naughty while I create my pivot tables” or “Well, they’re certainly not Graham’s…his pair has a ketchup stain on it.” Instead I just sat there and giggled too, probably just as appropriate a reaction.
I was talking to this British lady on the phone today and she said “You’re a star” and “You’re an angel” all within a span of 15 seconds. You have no idea how special I felt when I hung up. I am invincible!!! (Or people are just really polite here.)
Okay, so maybe you know that I have an uncanny ability to win things. Some people think I’m just lucky. But really, I think it just boils down to the fact that I enter EVERY CONTEST KNOWN TO MAN. So why should it be any different just because I’m a million miles from home? (I like to say a million miles because I don’t actually know how many miles it is.) Today I won a pair of tickets to go to the NME Music Awards and Afterparty on Thursday night. Granted I’ve never even heard of this award show, but I have heard of some of the bands performing – The Kaiser Chiefs, My Chemical Romance, and Arctic Monkeys to name a few. Plus, they could have offered me tickets to the Whale Awards and I would have jumped out of my pants with excitement. Needless to say, I’m pumped for it! This will be my first awards show so I’m trying to plan my outfit accordingly. I think I’ll fit in pretty well if I wear a dress suit with pantyhose; it’ll be perfect if I get caught up in a mosh pit.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
What’s it all mean, Basil?
I see a lot of GB bumper stickers on cars around London. Every time I see one, I immediately think, “It’s amazing that someone this far away from Massachusetts would have a Great Barrington sticker on their car. That’s pretty cool.” And then my brain starts functioning again and I think, “Really, Lisa. When are you going to stop being an idiot EVERY TIME you see that?”
It took me until yesterday, but I finally noticed that the hand bars/poles (is there even a technical term for them?) on the Tube are color coded to match their respective line. This will help prevent me from taking the green line when I really want the yellow line making me 15 minutes late for work because I don’t realize I’ve gotten on the wrong train until I’m 5 stops into the train ride and then I have to get out at Earl’s Court (where the hell is Earl’s Court anyway?) go up 50 stairs only to walk back down 50 stairs to get on the green line back to where I came from and then get on the yellow train I should have taken in the first place and ride 30 minutes into the city. Good thing I caught this early.
Do you think Sporty Spice feels lonely and sad when the rest of the Spice Girls bring their kids on stage with them? (Actually, I think having no kids is way better than being Eddie Murphy’s baby’s mama. But that’s just my personal preference.)
Unfortunately in my new office setup I no longer sit right across from G (collective sigh). I mean, he still sits close enough that I can hear his silverware and plates rattling at breakfast time AND lunch time, but not close enough to hear his incessant rambling. The guy who does sit across from me is boring. I have no idea what his name is and he’s a boss of some kind so I can’t make frankfurter jokes with him. However, this little tidbit totally made my day…maybe it might be okay after all:
Employee who looks like John Mayer who also works for Mr. Boring: “Can I leave at quarter to five today? I have a thing in my ear and I want someone to have a look at it.”
Lots of people have asked me how the Boston office is different from the London office. And by lots I mean more than 6 and less than 9. Yet I’m caught off guard each time they ask this, and I think I give a different answer depending on what’s in proximity to me at the time (Boston has less plants; London has a nicer coffee machine; there are more middle-aged balding men in the London office; Boston has more Thai employees; in Boston it’s easier for me to hide the fact that I’m on the internet 6 hours a day, etc. etc. etc.) I’m not sure what people are expecting my answer to be. I mean, a corporate office is pretty much a corporate office no matter where you are. There will always be cubicles, a bubbler that produces lukewarm water, water all over the countertop in the women’s bathroom, boogers on the wall over the urinals in the men’s bathroom, mirrors in the elevator for last minute hair checking, adjustable chairs that are so abrupt you could break your coccyx, a person who coughs every 15 seconds, a person who sneezes 8 times in a row, a person who insists on having their speaker phone set to 500 decibels for every call they make, vending machines with tempting snacks, and microwaves that smell like shrimp fried rice. I’d say the biggest difference I’ve seen between the Boston, Sydney, and London offices are the trashcans. I’m not kidding! This is the biggest, and most important I might add, difference – Boston has both a normal trashcan and a recycling trashcan at every desk. Sydney only had tall, bizarre cardboard trashcans (with no lining) that warned you against putting any “wet waste” in them (I made sure to ignore this stupid rule). And London? Well, like I said, London has no trashcans. You have to walk to the kitchen for that luxury. Personally, I’d settle for even more bald men if it means better trashcans.
It took me until yesterday, but I finally noticed that the hand bars/poles (is there even a technical term for them?) on the Tube are color coded to match their respective line. This will help prevent me from taking the green line when I really want the yellow line making me 15 minutes late for work because I don’t realize I’ve gotten on the wrong train until I’m 5 stops into the train ride and then I have to get out at Earl’s Court (where the hell is Earl’s Court anyway?) go up 50 stairs only to walk back down 50 stairs to get on the green line back to where I came from and then get on the yellow train I should have taken in the first place and ride 30 minutes into the city. Good thing I caught this early.
Do you think Sporty Spice feels lonely and sad when the rest of the Spice Girls bring their kids on stage with them? (Actually, I think having no kids is way better than being Eddie Murphy’s baby’s mama. But that’s just my personal preference.)
Unfortunately in my new office setup I no longer sit right across from G (collective sigh). I mean, he still sits close enough that I can hear his silverware and plates rattling at breakfast time AND lunch time, but not close enough to hear his incessant rambling. The guy who does sit across from me is boring. I have no idea what his name is and he’s a boss of some kind so I can’t make frankfurter jokes with him. However, this little tidbit totally made my day…maybe it might be okay after all:
Employee who looks like John Mayer who also works for Mr. Boring: “Can I leave at quarter to five today? I have a thing in my ear and I want someone to have a look at it.”
Lots of people have asked me how the Boston office is different from the London office. And by lots I mean more than 6 and less than 9. Yet I’m caught off guard each time they ask this, and I think I give a different answer depending on what’s in proximity to me at the time (Boston has less plants; London has a nicer coffee machine; there are more middle-aged balding men in the London office; Boston has more Thai employees; in Boston it’s easier for me to hide the fact that I’m on the internet 6 hours a day, etc. etc. etc.) I’m not sure what people are expecting my answer to be. I mean, a corporate office is pretty much a corporate office no matter where you are. There will always be cubicles, a bubbler that produces lukewarm water, water all over the countertop in the women’s bathroom, boogers on the wall over the urinals in the men’s bathroom, mirrors in the elevator for last minute hair checking, adjustable chairs that are so abrupt you could break your coccyx, a person who coughs every 15 seconds, a person who sneezes 8 times in a row, a person who insists on having their speaker phone set to 500 decibels for every call they make, vending machines with tempting snacks, and microwaves that smell like shrimp fried rice. I’d say the biggest difference I’ve seen between the Boston, Sydney, and London offices are the trashcans. I’m not kidding! This is the biggest, and most important I might add, difference – Boston has both a normal trashcan and a recycling trashcan at every desk. Sydney only had tall, bizarre cardboard trashcans (with no lining) that warned you against putting any “wet waste” in them (I made sure to ignore this stupid rule). And London? Well, like I said, London has no trashcans. You have to walk to the kitchen for that luxury. Personally, I’d settle for even more bald men if it means better trashcans.
Not exactly warm in here
The bathroom at the new office smells like cinnamon. I’m not sure why, all I know is that this is strange.
My chair at the old office had an upholstered seat. What does this mean in the grand scheme of things you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. It means that once I was done peeling my banana and was left with some banana peel remnants on my fingers, I could subtly wipe my fingers on the side of the chair instead of getting up and walking the 15 feet to the paper towels in the kitchen. My new chair, however, while sleek and pretty, has a plastic mesh type of seat. This means that if I wipe my potassium-laden fingers on it, I’ll end up just sitting on the residue and having pants smell like banana. Don’t worry, everyone. I am working the situation out by hording paper towels.
Picture ’30 feet away’ in your mind. (To help you visualize, picture me head-to-toe 6 times.) 30 feet. This is how close a coffee shop is to my new desk. I kid you not, my friends. My company, while very incapable of having a computer for an employee on their first day of work, has come up with the brilliant idea of putting a Costa Coffee right in the middle of our floor. This is both a blessing and a curse for obvious reasons. I mean, not only do they lattes, cappuccinos, mochaccinos, and Americanos, but they have sandwiches, fruit, soda, cookies, and croissants. What is a girl to do?!
My chair at the old office had an upholstered seat. What does this mean in the grand scheme of things you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. It means that once I was done peeling my banana and was left with some banana peel remnants on my fingers, I could subtly wipe my fingers on the side of the chair instead of getting up and walking the 15 feet to the paper towels in the kitchen. My new chair, however, while sleek and pretty, has a plastic mesh type of seat. This means that if I wipe my potassium-laden fingers on it, I’ll end up just sitting on the residue and having pants smell like banana. Don’t worry, everyone. I am working the situation out by hording paper towels.
Picture ’30 feet away’ in your mind. (To help you visualize, picture me head-to-toe 6 times.) 30 feet. This is how close a coffee shop is to my new desk. I kid you not, my friends. My company, while very incapable of having a computer for an employee on their first day of work, has come up with the brilliant idea of putting a Costa Coffee right in the middle of our floor. This is both a blessing and a curse for obvious reasons. I mean, not only do they lattes, cappuccinos, mochaccinos, and Americanos, but they have sandwiches, fruit, soda, cookies, and croissants. What is a girl to do?!
Friday, February 15, 2008
Kibbles 'n Bits
Here is a picture of one of the potted plants at the new office. Notice how the 'dirt' looks like dog food bits. And trust me, I know what dog food bits look like because I used to eat them. (Ha! Mom, try explaining your way out of THIS one!)
This is a ambiguous bathroom door at the new office. Even though this probably wasn't done on purpose, what a great office prank!
This is a ambiguous bathroom door at the new office. Even though this probably wasn't done on purpose, what a great office prank!
Thursday, February 14, 2008
I ate 6 eggs in 2 days
We are moving offices tomorrow. There’s something like 8 company offices all within the city of London and they’re consolidating three of them. This means that my day tomorrow will consist of watching frantic people trying to rid their desks of all unnecessary papers (which, truth be told, is every paper) but instead finding that Dorito chip they lost 8 months ago.
Either people will find any excuse to eat and drink here or they’re really sentimental about this building, because not only are we going out for drinks after work to celebrate our last day at Angel Court, but we’re also going to a pub for lunch. But get this – the name of the pub is Old Doctor Butler’s Head! One thing I learned very early on is that London is filled with fantastically-named pubs. (I like to think Old Doctor Butler’s Head refers to the bloodied head of a British doctor who accidentally decapitated himself while trying to perform brain surgery on a patient while intoxicated in 1893. Oh and the head? It haunts the pub.)
G has been quite active in the past two days in preparation for the move since his desk is exceedingly cluttered. What this means for me, the lucky person who gets to listen to him all day, is a handful of inane quotes (the context doesn’t matter…they still wouldn’t make sense):
“This is where the frisking happens.”
“Wonka wonka wonka!”
D said the word ‘movements’ today in the exact same way Austin Powers says ‘I’m gonna go watch a moooooooooovie.’ I have yet to figure out a way to snicker without having the people around me realize I’m snickering at them.
So that rocket building picture I sent awhile back? It’s nicknamed ‘The Gherkin.’
Many people have told me that I should go to Wimbledon in June, that it’s an amazing experience. I don’t doubt this and so today I inquired with a company ticket vendor to see if they had anything available. This was their reply:
Dear Lisa,
Thank you for your request.
Please note that unfortunately we are only able to source premium priced tickets for sporting events. See below for details:
Ladies Semi Final Priced at $2100 per ticket
Men’s Semi Final Priced at $4100 per ticket
Ladies Final Priced at $2400 per ticket
Men’s Final Priced at $6200 per ticket
All prices and availability are subject to change at any time. Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.
Here was my (fake) reply:
Dear Crazy Wimbledon Ticket Selling People,
$6200 for a single ticket? Are you nuts? Are those for the nosebleed seats too? I can understand paying this much for a Red Sox/Yankees playoff game; at least there I’m paying for the chance to see something as awesome as Pedro Martinez giving an ass whooping to Don Zimmer. And are the men really $3800 better than the women? I’m not a die-hard feminist or anything, but that seems a little silly to me. Please let me know if the prices drop down to $200 or below and I’ll be interested in a front-row seat.
Thanks a heap!
In completely unrelated news, Shaq is completely gone from South Beach leaving my Dad in utter despair. Today on the phone he told me, “I miss him already.”
Either people will find any excuse to eat and drink here or they’re really sentimental about this building, because not only are we going out for drinks after work to celebrate our last day at Angel Court, but we’re also going to a pub for lunch. But get this – the name of the pub is Old Doctor Butler’s Head! One thing I learned very early on is that London is filled with fantastically-named pubs. (I like to think Old Doctor Butler’s Head refers to the bloodied head of a British doctor who accidentally decapitated himself while trying to perform brain surgery on a patient while intoxicated in 1893. Oh and the head? It haunts the pub.)
G has been quite active in the past two days in preparation for the move since his desk is exceedingly cluttered. What this means for me, the lucky person who gets to listen to him all day, is a handful of inane quotes (the context doesn’t matter…they still wouldn’t make sense):
“This is where the frisking happens.”
“Wonka wonka wonka!”
D said the word ‘movements’ today in the exact same way Austin Powers says ‘I’m gonna go watch a moooooooooovie.’ I have yet to figure out a way to snicker without having the people around me realize I’m snickering at them.
So that rocket building picture I sent awhile back? It’s nicknamed ‘The Gherkin.’
Many people have told me that I should go to Wimbledon in June, that it’s an amazing experience. I don’t doubt this and so today I inquired with a company ticket vendor to see if they had anything available. This was their reply:
Dear Lisa,
Thank you for your request.
Please note that unfortunately we are only able to source premium priced tickets for sporting events. See below for details:
Ladies Semi Final Priced at $2100 per ticket
Men’s Semi Final Priced at $4100 per ticket
Ladies Final Priced at $2400 per ticket
Men’s Final Priced at $6200 per ticket
All prices and availability are subject to change at any time. Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.
Here was my (fake) reply:
Dear Crazy Wimbledon Ticket Selling People,
$6200 for a single ticket? Are you nuts? Are those for the nosebleed seats too? I can understand paying this much for a Red Sox/Yankees playoff game; at least there I’m paying for the chance to see something as awesome as Pedro Martinez giving an ass whooping to Don Zimmer. And are the men really $3800 better than the women? I’m not a die-hard feminist or anything, but that seems a little silly to me. Please let me know if the prices drop down to $200 or below and I’ll be interested in a front-row seat.
Thanks a heap!
In completely unrelated news, Shaq is completely gone from South Beach leaving my Dad in utter despair. Today on the phone he told me, “I miss him already.”
A view from the top
This is what I see all day at work when I look left. I am in prime position to see everyone who gets off the elevator, the unlucky few who forget their ID cards and have to wait in the lobby for someone to come let them in (I only pretended I didn't see them a couple times), and, since I'm also on the way to the kitchen, I can see that one guy walk by at least 15 times a day to get tea.
Those metal bars are what make my day fun, though. There's a little step there that I guess building management doesn't want people to trip over, so they put in those bars which tell you, "Hey. Go out of your way and take this ramp." But since I'm quite lazy, I like to just duck and go under the bars, saving me a total of 4 seconds. One of these days I'm going to do some gymnastics move on it; maybe do some flips and somersault into a perfect 10 landing.
Those metal bars are what make my day fun, though. There's a little step there that I guess building management doesn't want people to trip over, so they put in those bars which tell you, "Hey. Go out of your way and take this ramp." But since I'm quite lazy, I like to just duck and go under the bars, saving me a total of 4 seconds. One of these days I'm going to do some gymnastics move on it; maybe do some flips and somersault into a perfect 10 landing.
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