There�s nothing quite like getting hustled out of the office in the middle of a project to really get the blood pumping, is there? Last night I had this ridiculously long meeting that I was only supposed to sit in on, but instead ended up co-running, and it didn�t end until the time at which I�m supposed to be leaving the office every day. Of course, I still hadn�t reviewed the daily reports (part of my job -- the part that I�m constantly told is Top Priority and Mostest Importantest, although, to be fair, they say that about everything, just so I�ll take care of it).
So there I am, twenty minutes past my daily finish line, still attempting to fix crucial errors in the reports, paper strewn all over my desk, when Sophie comes charging up to me all, "What are you still doing here? You�re not working overtime, are you?" So I explained that the reports weren�t put into my inbox until I was already in the meeting and I had to finish them and�"I can�t have that! I�m not authorizing overtime pay for this! You need to leave!" She shrieked, and more or less pushed me out the door, like I was a stubborn tenant she was rescuing from a house fire.
And, see, the thing is this: I certainly don�t mind saying, "Fuck this job," and walking out the door at any given moment, much less when I am exhorted by my boss to do so, but I don�t do well with dropping massive projects in the middle and then trying to pick up where I left off, eighteen hours later. Especially when said project involves math, which I have trouble doing straight through on a good day. Also, my organizational skills are not quite military-grade, and when the first thing I encounter at 8:30 in the morning -- at which time my eyes are only barely open, anyway -- is eight scattered stacks of reports piled on top of my keyboard and every other previously available surface, it makes me want to cry.
Anyway, it took me half an hour this morning just to sort through all of that crap, figure out where I was yesterday, review the reports, replace the crucial, missing information, and fax all the paperwork. Following that, I had a rather interesting phone conversation with my mother, who insists on calling me at work. All the time.
First she called because she was driving through my old neighborhood in Chicago, and was therefore thinking of me. Then, ten minutes later, she called again because she was hopelessly lost in my old neighborhood in Chicago and needed help finding her way back to the interstate. Poor Mom. She didn�t really want to get off the phone, either, because I think she was afraid of getting lost again. But Sophie kept pacing in front of my door, looking at me like any minute she might bust in and drag me away from the phone in a fireman�s carry to shriek some more about my obligations as an hourly employee, so I had to excuse myself.
Whatever. At least I get healthcare, right?
Someone Got Here By Searching For: "sick of" "my wedding" And: "be a good whore" I�m Watching: Angel, and somehow not feeling the magic anymore. It makes me sad. And: Celebrity Mole, which is entertaining in a satisfyingly cheesy way.