Me:
So here I am, just pleasantly working away, and the AP walks in to ask someone a question and he is yet again wearing the pink shirt that I always take the piss out of, so as we have been emailing recently I send one that says pink? again? really? and he replies with something like 'Alfie says it takes a real man to wear pink, sales girl did a good job besides, thought you were ignoring me?', so I say 'Alfie as in Michael Caine? wouldn't trust my wardrobe to an aging lothario, wonder if the sales girl did a really good job if you know what I mean, and it takes two to ignore each other Lewis!"
No reply, so then I think, oh God, I've been too familiar, implying he's slept with a sales girl for the sake of a pink shirt and called him by his surname, so I go downstairs to his office to apologise and walk in on him in a meeting, and his secretary has to literally stop me in the door way. So then I'm in the corridor, thinking, can I just die right here now please.
So then I think well now he's going to think I want something, so I send a very short email saying 'just wanted to check I hadn't offended you, think I may have been too familiar - apologies'. So now I've sent an email implying he slept with a sales girl for a shirt, called him by his surname, stalked him in a meeting, and sent yet another email apologising.
I just can't ever see or speak to him ever, ever again, I am going to haveto resign, there's nothing else for it, how totally and completely awful.
Her:
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. that made me laugh almost out loud. it's all so very bridget jones... i am sure he will laugh at your email(s) and won't think anything strange of your possible over familiarity or attempt to retrieve your foot from your mouth in an elegant way. it'll all be fine. don't quit, think of the mortgage. bet you will have had an email back by the time you read this.
Me:
Thank you, thank you, thank you, now have nice fantasy that he may think I am just funny / polite as opposed to nightmare Glenn Close type Stalker lady. Think the truth probably lies somewhere in the middle, ie; he will most probably think I am a bit odd. Which is fine, odd is sooooo much better than bunny boiler.
However, no email back yet, am pretending to myself that he's just still in the meeting, and that after this one he has another one and so on and so forth until I never have to come back here again. God why do these things happen to me? No one else makes college assistant principals change their perception of them from 'intelligent professional' to 'probable loony' all in ten minutes.
Oh thank god!!! Reply! I got a reply! he said:
No offense taken; even from an aging Lothario with my dress sense. Not wanting to be too familiar?.........but, She (sales girl) did do a really good job, if you know what I mean!
He totally wants me.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
News from the insurance company
I have to pay a £75 excess on anything I claim for and they will only pay 20% of the value of anything because we were out of the home.
So for my Ipod, worth £300, I will actually pay more in excess than they will actually give me back.
I know it could have been an awful lot worse, I'm trying to hold on to small mercies, but I think I might just fall apart this afternoon, hopefully somewhere between skincare and the meal deals.
So for my Ipod, worth £300, I will actually pay more in excess than they will actually give me back.
I know it could have been an awful lot worse, I'm trying to hold on to small mercies, but I think I might just fall apart this afternoon, hopefully somewhere between skincare and the meal deals.
When Junkies Attack!
This weekend, The Glenys and I headed down to London to visit my friend Nikki and her boyfriend Paul, they’ve just moved into a swanky flat in the posh end of Brixton, a loft conversion type of thing with nice fourth floor views of the surrounding area and large velux windows (I am setting a scene here, can you tell?).
We headed out to the Windows On The World bar on the 28th floor of the London Hilton with fabulous views of Hyde Park and drinks costing a whopping £13 each. Then we went to a beautiful restaurant off Oxford St called Hush, the night led us to a rough student like bar and then Nikki and I decided to leave the boys to it and jumped on the tube home.
I couldn’t find my bag, we hunted the flat from top to bottom but it was no where to be seen, then I noticed the gold necklace I had taken off before we went out was no longer on the bedside table, Nikki had a look in her bedroom for my bag and found a small whirlwind of chaos had taken place on her bedside table, resulting in large holes where her grandmothers jewellery, her passport and about £40 in cash used to be…
Anyway, to cut a longish story a bit shorter, the resulting police visit and very glamorous CSI ladies think we were the victims of opportunistic junkies who are probably, as I type this, lying in some rancid bedsit, possibly overdosing on the profits they made from selling my Ipod and my friends Grandmothers jewellery on Brixton High St.
I have gone from furious anger (fucking, FUCKING arseholes), to slight hysteria (really? After the week from hell last week, THIS is what I get?), to just plain, old fashioned tears.
One of the loveliest people in the whole world asked me to be her maid of honour yesterday, and I have been so, SO thrilled about it. I am going to be the greatest, most accomplished, most coordinated, beautifully organised maid of honour in the whole world ever. So that is my bright, glorious ray of sunshine during a very, very cloudy time. I am going to try my best to make her proud.
Things will get better.
We headed out to the Windows On The World bar on the 28th floor of the London Hilton with fabulous views of Hyde Park and drinks costing a whopping £13 each. Then we went to a beautiful restaurant off Oxford St called Hush, the night led us to a rough student like bar and then Nikki and I decided to leave the boys to it and jumped on the tube home.
I couldn’t find my bag, we hunted the flat from top to bottom but it was no where to be seen, then I noticed the gold necklace I had taken off before we went out was no longer on the bedside table, Nikki had a look in her bedroom for my bag and found a small whirlwind of chaos had taken place on her bedside table, resulting in large holes where her grandmothers jewellery, her passport and about £40 in cash used to be…
Anyway, to cut a longish story a bit shorter, the resulting police visit and very glamorous CSI ladies think we were the victims of opportunistic junkies who are probably, as I type this, lying in some rancid bedsit, possibly overdosing on the profits they made from selling my Ipod and my friends Grandmothers jewellery on Brixton High St.
I have gone from furious anger (fucking, FUCKING arseholes), to slight hysteria (really? After the week from hell last week, THIS is what I get?), to just plain, old fashioned tears.
One of the loveliest people in the whole world asked me to be her maid of honour yesterday, and I have been so, SO thrilled about it. I am going to be the greatest, most accomplished, most coordinated, beautifully organised maid of honour in the whole world ever. So that is my bright, glorious ray of sunshine during a very, very cloudy time. I am going to try my best to make her proud.
Things will get better.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
When it all just gets a bit much.
Never, ever, ever, work in an office full of women.
After two days of bitching, and dirty looks and people walking out of the office en masse to get a new ID card and then not coming back with an ID card, I have had it.
We have spent the last six months trying to create an atmosphere of calm productivity, where people get the job done but can have a laugh while they do it, and this is what we get for it. The last boss there ruled with a rod of iron, scared the shit out of the staff and worked herself into a nervous breakdown but was never, ever spoken to the way I have been spoken to today.
So fine, if being personal and getting on with people just gets you walked all over, then I won't do it anymore, they can take their pleasant conversation and shove it up their jellified arses.
I have tried so hard during the last week to maintain a dignified front, to not appear upset, to just get on with the job. I have cried at home, in the car, and once in Boots by the feminine care products, but I have never, ever let them know that they made it personal, and it actually hurt.
Fuck them, fuck them and their 25 tea breaks a day, fuck their fucking danish fucking pastry days, fuck their "what do you mean duck? me? nothing wrong with me!", fuck their dirty looks and their conspiracy theories and their assumed hatred of me and what I represent to them, fuck their unwillingness to do anything that seems like work, fuck their cheap fucking polyester trousers and gold jewellary, fuck their tesco jeans.
It's times like this when I miss Tom Starkey. When, more specifically, I missed Tom Starkey living in the room below my room, when I could just run downstairs and knock on his door and tell him what was bothering me, and he'd listen, and probably forget everything that I said pretty much the second I said it, but nod in an understanding sort of way that always made me feel instantly comforted.
After two days of bitching, and dirty looks and people walking out of the office en masse to get a new ID card and then not coming back with an ID card, I have had it.
We have spent the last six months trying to create an atmosphere of calm productivity, where people get the job done but can have a laugh while they do it, and this is what we get for it. The last boss there ruled with a rod of iron, scared the shit out of the staff and worked herself into a nervous breakdown but was never, ever spoken to the way I have been spoken to today.
So fine, if being personal and getting on with people just gets you walked all over, then I won't do it anymore, they can take their pleasant conversation and shove it up their jellified arses.
I have tried so hard during the last week to maintain a dignified front, to not appear upset, to just get on with the job. I have cried at home, in the car, and once in Boots by the feminine care products, but I have never, ever let them know that they made it personal, and it actually hurt.
Fuck them, fuck them and their 25 tea breaks a day, fuck their fucking danish fucking pastry days, fuck their "what do you mean duck? me? nothing wrong with me!", fuck their dirty looks and their conspiracy theories and their assumed hatred of me and what I represent to them, fuck their unwillingness to do anything that seems like work, fuck their cheap fucking polyester trousers and gold jewellary, fuck their tesco jeans.
It's times like this when I miss Tom Starkey. When, more specifically, I missed Tom Starkey living in the room below my room, when I could just run downstairs and knock on his door and tell him what was bothering me, and he'd listen, and probably forget everything that I said pretty much the second I said it, but nod in an understanding sort of way that always made me feel instantly comforted.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
I don't ever say it enough.
My parents are the kind of people who have never been handed anything. Everything they have they worked their arses off to get and the vast majority of the time they have done it for me and my sister.This is a photo of the villa they have, where we just spent a wonderful week, and where they are going to spend many happy years retiring to.
Every single thing you see in this picture was paid for with blood, sweat and tears, I mean they don't work down the mines or anything but my mom is a nurse (blood), my dad is overweight with a Chandler Bing type of job (sweat) and they have both enjoyed many a screaming row during during the last 30 years (tears).
Seriously though, just for one tiny minute, I'm not great at telling my parents I love them, or how proud I am of them, or any of that sort of stuff, so I wanted to put out there, on the internet that neither of them really knows how to use, just in case one day they stumble on it, that if I can achieve half of what they have, I'll be very happy.
And thank you.
buy it. sell it. love it. obsess about it, lose sleep over it....
Yesterday I put a bid on a pair of seven for all mankind, crystal A pocket jeans on Ebay (retail price - £180, current bid - £19.95) and it's just about to end, I have 26 more minutes of staring at the screen and hitting refresh until my fingers are aching, bloody stubs.
I want them.
I don't know who Audrey6868 thinks she is but she sure as fuck cannot have my jeans.
I want them.
I don't know who Audrey6868 thinks she is but she sure as fuck cannot have my jeans.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
What would yours be?
One of my girlfriends from Uni has come up with an amazing present idea for all of us girls. She has asked us to email her with our favourite two songs of all time and she is going to compile them into a CD and send us all a copy for Christmas.
How cool is that?
So I've been thinking and thinking and thinking and there are too many to boil them down to just two! I currently have a shortlist of about 30 and am trying to eliminate based on how often I can play them without getting bored.
So my question is - What would you put and why? It's got to be based on not just the musical merits of said songs, your favourite songs might be absolutely awful but remind you of something so absolutely fabulous that happened to you that you will always love them.
Come on, this is supposed to be all interactive 'n shit, so interact.
That means you too Glenys.
NB: I'm not going to steal anybody elses, I have plenty of my own, I'm just curious.
How cool is that?
So I've been thinking and thinking and thinking and there are too many to boil them down to just two! I currently have a shortlist of about 30 and am trying to eliminate based on how often I can play them without getting bored.
So my question is - What would you put and why? It's got to be based on not just the musical merits of said songs, your favourite songs might be absolutely awful but remind you of something so absolutely fabulous that happened to you that you will always love them.
Come on, this is supposed to be all interactive 'n shit, so interact.
That means you too Glenys.
NB: I'm not going to steal anybody elses, I have plenty of my own, I'm just curious.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Stuck for words
I know, I know, I know, I have turned into a useless blogger, there are hardly any photos anymore, the posts are scarce and not particularly humorous and I have no imagination.
I don’t know what to say, I just can’t think of anything to write! And So much stuff has happened, I continue with my gym going (although why I am bothering when the total weight loss amounts to 2lbs – 2 fucking pounds – is beyond me), I went on holiday, work is insanely busy, Liz and I have a new business plan which will make us the next Bill Gates, things are moving forward with the house again. Really, I have motivation, content, I have funny anecdotes about my mother….
I just don’t have any words.
Must find words….
Anecdote about my mother.
My mother rang me yesterday morning at 9.15, while I was in bed with a horrible hangover, and then she cried for two hours about how awful my Dad is, and how she's lonely and has no one to talk to and I was like, holding the phone away from my ear to throw up and when I put it back to my ear she was still just hickupping and "your..hic... Dad... hic…just...hic...doesn't...hic...understand...hic...me...", and I'm like, no mum, he doesn't, your life is very, very difficult, I'm sorry about that, hang on a second... HURL.
She’s fine now, there will be no separation, my father has reached a plateau of understanding he hasn’t had before during the 30 years they have been married. Glenn is blaming schizophrenia for their 12 hour marriage crisis.
A thing that annoyed me.
Yes, I am aware there is a photo of me in a bikini on flickr. No, I am not happy about it. I am distinctly unhappy abut it. This is not a ploy to get people to post something about how I look fine, it’s not about that, it’s about me choosing to wear a bikini on holiday with friends and not choosing to have any photo’s taken of such a thing and then finding one on the internet. Clue – I am not smiling at the camera in the photo, I am reading a book. I am very happy for people who can feel confident when wearing two triangles and a pair of waterproof pants but I am not one of them.
Why work is insanely busy.
Apparently, after a pretty awful 2005, people like us again! The corporate giant crushes the independent thinker! You will pay us! You will like it! You will give us work!
Arse.
Hey, it’s ok, two punnets of frozen raspberries later and soon, I’ll be on the cover of Time magazine, it’s ok that you don’t understand that, give it time…
None of this bodes well for a novel though, really, how can I become the next Nadine Gordimer if I can’t find enough words for a regular diary entry...?
Books I read on holiday that were good.
'Running with Scissors' by Augusten Burroughs
'On Beauty' by Zadie Smith
A book I read on holiday that was amazing.
'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' by Jonathan Safran Foer
A book I read on holiday that I wish I hadn't read because it was awful and I will never get that time back.
'A long way down' by Nick Hornby
I don’t know what to say, I just can’t think of anything to write! And So much stuff has happened, I continue with my gym going (although why I am bothering when the total weight loss amounts to 2lbs – 2 fucking pounds – is beyond me), I went on holiday, work is insanely busy, Liz and I have a new business plan which will make us the next Bill Gates, things are moving forward with the house again. Really, I have motivation, content, I have funny anecdotes about my mother….
I just don’t have any words.
Must find words….
Anecdote about my mother.
My mother rang me yesterday morning at 9.15, while I was in bed with a horrible hangover, and then she cried for two hours about how awful my Dad is, and how she's lonely and has no one to talk to and I was like, holding the phone away from my ear to throw up and when I put it back to my ear she was still just hickupping and "your..hic... Dad... hic…just...hic...doesn't...hic...understand...hic...me...", and I'm like, no mum, he doesn't, your life is very, very difficult, I'm sorry about that, hang on a second... HURL.
She’s fine now, there will be no separation, my father has reached a plateau of understanding he hasn’t had before during the 30 years they have been married. Glenn is blaming schizophrenia for their 12 hour marriage crisis.
A thing that annoyed me.
Yes, I am aware there is a photo of me in a bikini on flickr. No, I am not happy about it. I am distinctly unhappy abut it. This is not a ploy to get people to post something about how I look fine, it’s not about that, it’s about me choosing to wear a bikini on holiday with friends and not choosing to have any photo’s taken of such a thing and then finding one on the internet. Clue – I am not smiling at the camera in the photo, I am reading a book. I am very happy for people who can feel confident when wearing two triangles and a pair of waterproof pants but I am not one of them.
Why work is insanely busy.
Apparently, after a pretty awful 2005, people like us again! The corporate giant crushes the independent thinker! You will pay us! You will like it! You will give us work!
Arse.
Hey, it’s ok, two punnets of frozen raspberries later and soon, I’ll be on the cover of Time magazine, it’s ok that you don’t understand that, give it time…
None of this bodes well for a novel though, really, how can I become the next Nadine Gordimer if I can’t find enough words for a regular diary entry...?
Books I read on holiday that were good.
'Running with Scissors' by Augusten Burroughs
'On Beauty' by Zadie Smith
A book I read on holiday that was amazing.
'Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close' by Jonathan Safran Foer
A book I read on holiday that I wish I hadn't read because it was awful and I will never get that time back.
'A long way down' by Nick Hornby
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