06.21.2004 - 3:34 p.m.
Over the last couple years at Workplace, we've had to create policies that govern the entire company based on one or two people's behavior, and I hate that. Basic common sense crap like "don't leave a big fucking mess in the kitchen", or "don't physically pick up a coworker and dangle her by her feet and make her cry", or "don't, you know, show up in the office like one day a week and expect to get paid your full salary"? You wouldn't think a company would need to put that in writing, but take a look at your employee handbook - everything in there had to be typed up to address those scenarios and more.
go back ::: forward
Workplace never used to have an employee handbook, but now we do. It's far from draconian, as those things go, but it's kind of sad we couldn't be the organization that didn't need one. It sucks that we had to come up with warnings for everyone because of the assholery of 1% of the company.
So, in the same vein, I believe that 99.999% of the people who read this journal can skip the following, because it doesn't apply to you lovely folk:
Hey. If you send me freaky email that gives me the creeps, I am not going to write you back. Instead of getting your panties in a twist when you do not receive a response, please ask yourself WHY you are writing freaky email that gives a complete stranger the creeps. Then work on that issue. And if you do not care for the contents of my journal, may I recommend that you simply cast your eyes elsewhere, to one of the many millions of online alternatives. Thanks.
Okay! There was my can't-believe-I-had-to-write-it online journal handbook. Let's move on.
Seattle weather has been out-fucking-STANDING lately. The whole weekend was sunshine and hot temperatures, and JB and I really should have been hiking up Mt. Rainier or kayaking on Lake Union or trotting briskly around Green Lake. We did none of those things, but we did attend a festive barbecue where I drank my own weight in beer. Carpe diem!
The abrupt arrival of summer requires a daily outing with the hose and sprinkler, which gets annoying after a while. As much as I love the fragrance of our just-bloomed flowering jasmine, I grow weary of being its water bitch. I guess you've officially become a dreary suburbanite when the appearance of clouds makes you automatically utter the words "It'll be good for the yard."
Wedged in between these luscious sunny days was the fucking storm of the century last week. We were jolted awake in the wee hours by the most fantastic thunder and lightning display I have ever seen, and I count the year we spent in Vegas. It sounded like it was all happening about an inch above our house, and Dog freaked right the holy hell out and required much petting and soothing squeaks of her stuffed hedgehog and -
Excuse me while I slap myself for delivering three paragraphs about the weather.
Ooh, baby, I've been bad.
So, so, so bad. Mmmm....
What? Oh great, now I'm writing the freaky journal that gives YOU the creeps.
In an office stacked to the gills with Mountain Dew and various other highly caffeinated beverages, including a damn espresso machine, my coworkers have been giving me shit for drinking Red Bull.
It's true that outside of the realms of a smoky nightclub, and undiluted with vodka, Red Bull is sort of a silly thing to be tossing back during the day. I can't claim that it tastes good - I even drink the sugarfree variety which has a distinct river-polluting chemical tang to it. Not to mention the fact that once you pour it into a glass and it is no longer hidden behind its slender little aluminum disguise, Red Bull is the color of urine. Specifically, in the words of my office-mate, "Urine from someone who's been lost in the desert for a few days". (Well, technically that would mean "nonexistant", I suppose, but the point is Red Bull is a vile shade of yellow, visibly not meant to be consumed by humans.)
What can I say, I like the fact that it's not as heavily carbonated as Diet Coke, and thusly does not cause me to expand by several pants sizes during the day. I like that within minutes of drinking one, my leg is jiggling uncontrollably and I'm cycling through random snatches of 80's electronica in my head. Nothing kicks the 3 PM doldrums square in the caboose like a healthy slug of Red Bull, is what I'm saying.
There just seems to be a stigma associated with drinking the stuff. "Uh oh," said a coworker with sympathy the other day when I cracked one open. Like I'd been up all night hoovering giant lines of coke while simultaneously injecting heroin into my gums, or something. Which, I hasten to assure you, I was NOT.
On the other hand, since my wild late-night activities are typically limited to giggly viewings of Real Sex on HBO, maybe the Red Bull is making me look, you know, cool.
Okay, I am on a mission to convince JB that I need a Mini. Does anyone have one, or know someone with one? Are they fun to drive? Can you fit like 56 clowns in one? Inquiring minds want to know!