It's a weird day. Not really weird, actually; just kind of out of sorts. No, that's not it either. Oh, I don't know how to describe it. I went to Smart & Final to get jelly beans today for the office (it is apparently Jelly Bean Day) and got lost trying to find Rampart. Really? It's right there...past Alvarado. But I ended up going down to Hobart, then up to Wilshire, and generally taking the longest route possible to Smart & Final on Beverly. From there, I was going to Starbucks at Wilshire and Union. I passed Alvarado and kept going east on Beverly. Criss, my traveling companion, said, "Hey, here's an idea. Why don't you continue on Beverly to Main Street, then loop around and come back up Olympic..." I may have called her a few things and told her to shut her yap while I found a new route to Starbucks. "I just want to go on record as saying that the old route was just fine," she said.
So, after I shoved Criss out of the moving vehicle and found my way to Starbucks, where Beardy McKerouac* was holding court again, I was fine. But then, I came back to work and realized I missed a one-on-one meeting with my leadership mentor (she's was fine with it). I muddled through a few tasks, sent some emails, then made copies and prepped for an afternoon meeting, which included making popcorn--the real kind, not microwaved. All the while, though, I felt like I was in a movie or something. Not like this was my job or my life. My boss finally said, "Are you having one of those days where you just feel like playing?" To which I replied, "Yes, that's it. I don't feel like working anymore. Where is my rich husband? This is not the life to which I intended to become accustomed." Surprisingly, she laughed. She also laughed at me when I said, "well, you're pretty...pretty technologically challenged." I also didn't get fired, which is a good thing.
After I got the meeting all squared away, I found this email in my non-work account that I had been purchased by one Shirley A. I didn't realize I was up for sale? Is that even legal? And, come on, I may not be much, but pound for pound I have to be worth more than $1563.
Thank God it's nearly quitting time and just a few hours closer to knitting time.
*Beardy McKerouac is this guy who sits at Starbucks in the back corner all day, every day, writing his manifesto, or poetry, or ABCs. He's there every time we go to Starbucks, no matter what time of day we go. Morning, he's there. Afternoon, he's there. He always has this soulful, world-weary look upon his face like he's seen some troubles and lived to tell...but he won't tell. That's his mystery. Oh, and he has a beard.
So, after I shoved Criss out of the moving vehicle and found my way to Starbucks, where Beardy McKerouac* was holding court again, I was fine. But then, I came back to work and realized I missed a one-on-one meeting with my leadership mentor (she's was fine with it). I muddled through a few tasks, sent some emails, then made copies and prepped for an afternoon meeting, which included making popcorn--the real kind, not microwaved. All the while, though, I felt like I was in a movie or something. Not like this was my job or my life. My boss finally said, "Are you having one of those days where you just feel like playing?" To which I replied, "Yes, that's it. I don't feel like working anymore. Where is my rich husband? This is not the life to which I intended to become accustomed." Surprisingly, she laughed. She also laughed at me when I said, "well, you're pretty...pretty technologically challenged." I also didn't get fired, which is a good thing.
After I got the meeting all squared away, I found this email in my non-work account that I had been purchased by one Shirley A. I didn't realize I was up for sale? Is that even legal? And, come on, I may not be much, but pound for pound I have to be worth more than $1563.
Thank God it's nearly quitting time and just a few hours closer to knitting time.
*Beardy McKerouac is this guy who sits at Starbucks in the back corner all day, every day, writing his manifesto, or poetry, or ABCs. He's there every time we go to Starbucks, no matter what time of day we go. Morning, he's there. Afternoon, he's there. He always has this soulful, world-weary look upon his face like he's seen some troubles and lived to tell...but he won't tell. That's his mystery. Oh, and he has a beard.
1 comment:
Hang over?
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