Posts Tagged 'office space'

Surviving the Firm Holiday Party

It is once again that time of year where I don my cutest party dresses for some yuletide themed eggnog laden Jesus sanctioned debauchery.
The first major event of the Season:: My Firm’s holiday bash.
This year’s holiday party was a bigger deal than usual, as my boss had decided to stage a fuck-the-recession style blow-out at a super swank newly minted Beverly Hills hotel.  Not only were 70 of my dear co-workers in attendance, but so too were 230 of our most important clients.
A situation such as this, in which music, alcohol, people I like [or strongly dislike] and my nervous energy are combined, generally ends up in sheer disaster for me.  But after a lesson hard learned [see Bitches Talk Shit], I decided to do my damnedest to maintain some semblance of decorum this year.  And while this made the party considerably less climactic, I did succeed [mostly].
Highlights and lessons below.
1:: Two unrelated people told me that I looked like Bridget Bardot, which is completely not true, but still the nicest compliment I think I have ever received.  It is now my mission to avoid seeing any documentation of this event, as surely any photographic or video evidence will only drive home how unlike Bridget Bardot I actually look.
2:: A girl I worked with whom I thought I didn’t like, I actually do like.  In fact, I am just a people liker, I have decided.  I like this about myself.  What I don’t like is that I said some not nice things about her before I decided I liked her.
3:: While I realize that I’d have had more fun had I gotten drunker and stayed out later like many other of my cohorts did, and while I do feel like I missed out some, driving to work on Monday not being mortified about something I said/did was refreshing.
4:: Seeing cell phone video of my friend going an impromptu singing performance on stage really drove home the benefit of non-mortification.
5:: Cell phone video is the death of fun.
All in all, the party was a success, though slighted underwhelmed.  I had fun without having TOO much fun.  And apparently, I looked pretty damn good doing it.
In other news::
I followed my gut [and my readers’ advice] and called Ratatouille.  After all his efforts in attempting to convince me that I ought to give him another chance, he has failed to call me back.  Hope you didn’t get too attached to his tag, readers, because into the graveyard of men he goes.
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“Bitches talk shit.”

I was speaking tonight to Tight End, a good friend from high school. Since high school, Tight End has gone on to become a successful professional football player and is basically living The Life. Still, despite his new found glory and riches [he has groupies!], he has remained totally the same – in a good way. Tight End now lives in one of the fly over states and I seldom see him, but he is always good for a some wise words. Or at least some really unsage but hilarious advice.

After having spoken for about a few minutes with Tight End tonight, he asked me why I was so down sounding. I shared with him my axienty over confronting Work Troll tomorrow. After launching into my twenty minute long take on the situtation, Tight End laughed [literally, laughed out loud at me. Over and over…like a serious, hearty laugh] and said::

“Diet Coke, bitches talk shit. Why are you all twisted about that when you know it is how it is?”

Damn, he is right. Bitches do talk shit. Why am I so twisted about it? I am going to get over it now.

I love my dad.

So as a follow up to my last post about Work Troll, I just got off my the phone with my dad, to whom I just explained the story.

Of course, about half way through I started crying and he stopped me and said::

“Kid, I know you. And I think that instead of letting people who are cruel hurt you, you should just say ‘fuck em’ and keep doing whatever you are doing, because you are an amazing person.”

Thanks, dad.

And in conclusion, ‘fuck em.’

My Ride.

Last night we had an office party. As with most office parties had by my office, booze were involved. In this instance, a particularly fine champagne selection was on hand. And after Diet Coke, Champagne is very much my favorite liquid to consume [well, that an milk shake]. Which is bad. Especially since at some point last night I knew I would have to get home and somehow also be able to get back to the office bright and early the next morning.

At around 8:30 [maybe?] I called Fancy Shoes (formerly “Creepy Sleeper”)* and asked if he’d pick me up in an hour [not wanting to be the first to leave the party]. He said he was too tired and rejected my proposal.

Not wanting to take a taxi [because Taxi’s are depressing], I replied to a friend** who had texted me earlier to see what he was up to. The friend who has earlier texted enthusiastically agreed to by My Ride. Perhaps a little too enthusiastically.

My Ride arrived to scoop me at around 9:15 [I think]. My Ride INSISTED, [seriously, I was pretty much held hostage] that since I was already in a drink-ie mood, we should stay out. Usually, I would be okay with such a proposal as drinking tends to make me want to drink more. But last night, I was tired, my head was a little achy from all the bubbly, I really wanted my bed and I was feeling a little down. But again My Ride kept pushing, until finally I gave in.

I thought a good compromise would be to go to a bar close to my house [Three Clubs] because that way, once I had my obligatory drink, I could ask that we leave easy/fast style. So at the bar, My Ride keeps prodding me about why I was down. I explained that I was not really down DOWN, but just maybe in a little bit of a pouty mood. At which point I guess My Ride thought a good way to make me feel better was to try to molest me at the bar.

Well, he didn’t molest me. But he did go in for a kiss. At which time I cried out, “what are you doing!!!???” Quickly he apologized and I thought that was the end of that. THEN, like ten minutes later he tried to put his hand up my dress. I promptly removed his hand and placed back on his knee. I guess he thought I was being coy because then he went in for ANOTHER kiss. At this point, I told him I wanted to go home. And he replied that if I wanted to go home, I could mossy on out. Alone.

So I did – and ended up walking home. It wasn’t that far [about a mile], but it really sucked. And I am/was really mad. And I cried. And I fully expected an apology by the morning, but alas, I have gotten none.

So the lessons I have learned from this experience are::

1:: Don’t drink too much champagne at an office party.

2:: If you do, be careful who you call.

3:: [Some] people kind of suck.

4:: Always pack a pair of flip flops because you never know when you will be walking home.

* Creepy Sleeper does not like to be called Creepy Sleeper. So as a courtesy to Creepy Sleeper, I am going to refer to him as Fancy Shoes instead. It was either that or Transformer (because of an alleged impending transformation) or just pain old D. I suspect that Fancy Shoes won’t like Fancy Shoes or Transformer or D. – but one must be chosen. I just want to be clear, Fancy Shoes is not intended to be insulting – it merely relates to the fact that he has lots of Fancy Shoes. Which is not a bad thing.

** This “friend” I speak of is a friend of one of my other friends who I met about a year ago at a party my original friend’s girlfriend was hosting. Once several months ago we got drunk and kissed, but not before or after such time has there been anything physical between us. So I get that maybe he thought that I was drunk dialing him to hook up [which I have never done before so I don’t know why he’d think that], but once it was clear that was not the case, why did he have to go on and be an asshole?

Oh god, and now it is the next afternoon and one of my favorite co-workers maybe just quit over a disagreement with another employee. [UPDATE:: The employee to whom I was referring to almost quiting is Work Troll!! Note, how I called her my “favorite” then.]

I want to go home and burrow.

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Irrefutable signs that the world is ending.

The Philosopher has made contact. Or rather, I should say The Philosopher has responded to contact made by me. I know, I know – I ought not to have contacted him after I *specifically* told HIM to call me. But I texted, so it’s cool. Actually, it is juvenile and silly. But then so am I, so it is also fitting. Anyhow, dice it how you will, but contact was made. And what resulting was a reaffirmation of what I already know. Aristotle Boy (his new, less regal title) is NOT interested.

The textversation (conversation via text) went a little something like this (actually, nothing like this, but you get the gist):

Me:: Hi.
Him:: Hi.
Me:: When are we hanging out again?
Him:: I totally want to hang out again. BUT – I am basically busy for the next millennium so let’s just keep in touch mm, k? And if I ever free up – which I won’t – I will let you know.
Me:: Umm, ok.

So yeah, there you have it. I got the “don’t call me, I’ll call you” brushoff.*

Also, I think the world has gone mad (and not only because Aristotle Boy doesn’t like awesome me) but also, I was in the lounge today and overheard the following:

Person #1:: I really want to go see There Will Be Blood. I heard that Daniel Day Lewis is amazing in it.
Person #2:: Yeah, he is. The movie itself is just okay**, but he really makes it worth watching.
Person #1:: Yeah, he is like Will Smith. He really just shines in every movie.

Did someone just compare Daniel Day – billion Oscar winning, My Left Foot, Last of the Mohicans and In the Name of the Father starring – Lewis to Will “mother effing Welcome to Miami and Independence Day” Smith? Yes. Someone mother effing did. Like I said, mad world.

And finally, I can hear a frog outside my window. I live in Hancock Park. Not the jungle or where ever it is frogs are founds. And no, I am not on shrooms.

* I thought about whether I would have preferred Aristotle Boy simply not having responded to my text, and the truth is, I’m glad he did. Even though he didn’t say what I wanted (rat bastard), at least there is a sense of finality to the whole thing now. Kind of.

** Totally false. The movie is awesome.

Dear Blackberry, I hate you. Hard.

I fired up a new posting with the intent of joyously expounding about the glory of Thursday’s end of the work day when one happens to have Friday off (which I happen to have off this week) – when ZIP! BOOM! BOP! BAM! – I get an email from a client indicating that there will be no end to my Thursday. Maybe ever.** Why did this happen? I will tell you why. Because clients have Blackberry’s. And so do their attorney’s. And so they can be in the airport on a flight to Hong Kong when they all of a sudden remember to forward you a certain GIANT HORRIBLE ANNOYING document, with a note that says to make said document more giant, slightly less horrible, and infinitely more annoying at once.
Which all brings me to my point: The Blackberry.
The employee/Blackberry relationship strikes me as being very much like how I imagine marriage (except my own, which will be perfect).

At first, they are neat. Pleasant to be around. Provide opportunity for entertainment. Useful for communication. Slowly the casual amusement turns into co-dependence. You can’t leave home without Blackberry and Blackberry can’t stay charged up without you. Pretty soon, you can’t be anywhere without Blackberry. Let Blackberry out of your site for five minutes are you are afraid what type of shenanigans you are missing out on.

Then as soon as it came, the honeymoon period ends. Blackberry takes up too much room. None of your friends like Blackberry and are starting to complain about your constant companion. Can’t they get some alone time, they wonder? Blackberry has met your parents, and they too were largely unimpressed. But still, there are benefits. With Blackberry, you never feel lost. Blackberry provides you a sense of comfort you have grown accustomed to.

A short time later, even that begins to fade. Slowly, the surface of Blackberry starts to crack. Blackberry starts to brings you nothing but obligations. You fear/loath every encounter with Blackberry. The good times are gone. You long to live a life without Blackberry. A life where you can be free, and roam the streets alone, ready to be swept off your feet by the next technological gadget that comes your way. But it is too late. You have signed a contract. In blood. Blackberry, with help of AT&T, owns you for the rest of your natural life (one two year contract at a time). Everybody warned you not to be lured in by the fantasy. You did not take heed. You allowed yourself to be sucked into the vortex.

And now, your life is over.

Anyhow. Yeah. I hate my Blackberry.
** In the interest of being fair, I do actually like my current job a great big – despite this recent slap. And it is still exponentially better than my old job [Note: by “old job” I mean “the old torture chamber to which I would report on a daily basis”]