Caterwauling

Technology is catching one of my wishes, to freeze-dry a woman’s eggs till she wants to use ‘em. But I found it really fucking depressing when they noted, “Women are not only wrinkling on the outside, but on the inside as well.”

Like Bart Simpson said, “I didn’t think it was possible but this sucks AND blows!”

On iTunes: Tara MacLean, “More”

Spent the last day and a half in meetings. Recovering from these is like the inverse of recovering from the breakup of a relationship. After a breakup, they say it takes half the amount of time that you dated someone to get over them. After meetings, it typically takes me twice as long to recover.

It’s not that I don’t have six piles of paperwork and 179 e-mails to attend to; I just don’t wanna. Plain and simple.

Speaking of plain and simple, we changed some procedures this month, which one staffer took as her chance to not meet deadlines. She is whining to everyone who will listen that she “knows deadlines.” And people are trying to defend her, saying that she simply didn’t have enough time to become accustomed to the new procedures. Fucking moron — the only real change was that she has to send the same information to a DIFFERENT person, but the deadlines are less flexible with my staff than they have been with the former point person. Meaning, no more asking me, “What’s your REAL deadline?” because my real deadline was the one you were given, and if you want to miss it, there’s a 150 percent rush charge. Period. And all of this was explained to her and a dozen others, and she’s the only fucktard who couldn’t get the hint.

Speaking of getting the hint, our former president, Princess Fatass, tried bullying me yesterday. I asked for his guidance in developing a policy, and he overrode me and told me how disappointed he is in me that I didn’t remember a conversation he claims we had more than a year ago. OK, No. 1, I would have remembered something that had to do with my magazine, and No. 2, I was in the HOSPITAL at this time last year, so no, this conversation probably never took place. How DARE that ham-and-cheese-on-legs tell ME that he’s angry at ME for supposedly FORGETTING something he probably told to his cheeseburger? Of course, his request had a flaw in it, so I called bullshit on him and said I’d have never agreed to it based on that alone.

Fuck him. I’m setting the policy according to my budget and to my wishes, not according to some Krispy Kreme with hands who bullies everybody who crosses his path instead of cooperating with them. Fuck off and die, you overinflated corny turd who’s a french fry away from needing three airplane seats at a time.

On iTunes: BT, “Simply Being Loved”

Okay, so I run a magazine. I have technical skills and speak a lingo that I expect fellow publishing-type people to understand. I communicate with technical people and laypeople equally well. However, I encountered a real fuckwit in my field who couldn’t even understand the techie-speak, so I dumbed it down and still don’t understand why the hell she can’t accommodate my request.

I purchased the rights to a photo that ran in a local newspaper (printed on newsprint — hold that thought; it comes in handy later). An important person in my organization was seen hanging out with Sen. John Kerry. I called this “special editor” (and boy is she special) and asked her to FTP a TIF in CMYK my way. I paid $50 for this request and waited four days for this.

So I get an e-mail with a TIF in RGB. No big deal; I can fix that. But what the dumb broad did was scan the photo FROM THE NEWSPRINT and e-mail it to me. I could have done THAT myself! As if THAT weren’t bad enough, there is a ton of text on the photo, telling their readers to see the related story in whatever section on whatever page. They also had the cutline placed on the photo instead of separately, under it. *sigh*

So I contacted this genius today to say apparently we had a misunderstanding and that I wanted the TIF of the ACTUAL PHOTO FROM THE LAYOUT. And she has tried valiantly to e-mail this humongous file to me (hence why I wanted it FTP’d). And when I told her that I get messages that the attachment gets stripped because it’s too fucking big to e-mail, well, she e-mailed it again. Same problem.

So now I have her trying to find out if anyone has an FTP program she can use — I am willing to give her my FTP login information so she can dump it directly onto my server. Apparently this is rocket science, because she’s stumped. I could, of course, request that she burn a CD and mail it to me, but I’ve got deadlines and I can’t keep waiting for her to get it together. I can’t believe I had to pay for this aggravation and I STILL don’t have the fucking photo in-hand!

I hate people who poop at work, because they funk up the john for all the rest of us innocent souls who simply cannot hold our bladders until we can go home to the sanctity of our clean bathrooms.

I just saw one of the executives walking (well, more like pinching his cheeks together and shuffling his feet than walking) past my office on the way to the men’s room with the newspaper under his arm. Not the newspaper I produce, mind you (mine is best left in a litterbox), but the WaPo. It’s like a fucking billboard advertisement when someone waddles past with a pending load in his shorts and a four-inch-thick newspaper in tow.

I pity that toilet.

On iTunes: New Found Glory, “Come Back Bon Jovi”

Because I’d much rather sit here, chainsmoking and eating honey-wheat pretzels dipped in raspberry-wasabi mustard instead of housecleaning, I figured I’d blog till my brains fall out. Which should occur in approximately five minutes. The brains falling out, that is, not the housecleaning.

One of my purchases this weekend included scandalous underthings that are safely tucked away in an “in case of emergency, break glass” kind of hideaway. Presently, I am debating about taking out a personal ad: “Have new sleazy underwear. Want to break them in. Free fucks galore if you promise to leave before daybreak.”

Speaking of free fucks galore, my dreams have been inherently (and almost disturbingly) sexual. Could it be that I am a newly crowned vibrator peddler? Anyone from male colleagues to the hot server/dancer at Coyote Ugly have popped up in various degrees of undress in my dreams. In last night’s dream, I was in the parking lot at work in the aforementioned scandalous knickers with someone I should not be thinking about in that kind of way. The dreams always involve me getting close to someone but then pulling myself away and running for daylight — much like most of my relationships. If it doesn’t feel 100 percent right, then I can’t do it. There are people I fuck and people I love, and it’s always mutually exclusive like that. Will it always be that way? I may never find out.

On iTunes: Dave Matthews Band, “The Space Between”