This is what my limit looks like

October 29th, 2017, 5:52 PM by Goddess

Got screwed for the third time at a favorite restaurant today.

Three visits in a row now, I’ve not been able to eat at the same time as my friend or mom. Always have to send someone’s food back to be redone.

The thing is, the food is always great when it’s fixed. The managers are fantastic, and totally make up for the sucky server and/or cook. Two out of the three visits, I got my meal comped.

The thing is, it’s like any job. If the corporate equivalent of servers and cooks can’t get it right — and the manager ends up doing everything anyway — why do you need “help”?

I’m already at my wits’ end about so many things. Is it so much to expect that when I order grilled salmon, the fucking thing touches some fire at some point and isn’t oozing its innards all over my plate?

Maybe I’m just annoyed because it’s Sunday night and I have work to do that I would like to be done right. Without 75 questions that require more effort than tackling the project itself. Without “well I never did this before” from someone who’s been there exactly a year and a half LONGER than me and I KNOW my/our old boss didn’t do jack shit so SOMEONE had to do it.

And I have a sneaking suspicion I have to cancel next weekend’s plans. Unrelated but equally infuriating. Especially since I’ve spent money I guess I can’t afford anymore to make it happen because my landlord is putting me on the street AT CHRISTMAS.



Oh just ask me how my day was, thanks

October 7th, 2017, 10:32 AM by Goddess

“Christ, what an embarrassment.”

That’s what Mom texted last night after I explained why I would be late. Because I had to apologize to one of my editors because my team’s utter inability to publish a four-sentence alert in less than an hour and a half. And the only reason it went out at all was because I had to pull rank and say get it together, for crying out loud. (I was informed it could go out Monday. Um, who has the fucking title and makes that kind of decision? Me. Get it the fuck out now, Sparky. Every goddamned thing cannot be a big-ass FIGHT.)

I give up. I really do. This one person is making a mockery of all of us. And I guarantee his job is safer than mine.

He has this grudge against this particular editor. An editor who TRIED TO GET ME FIRED four jobs ago when we worked at the same company before. Hell, even I don’t have a grudge against the man. He seems to forget, and I’m committed to doing the same.

Sure he’s not the most riveting writer. Or especially accurate with certain details. And it is difficult to turn his stuff around super-quickly sometimes. But Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, the man is VERY good at the thing we hired him for. Be good to him, OK?

Hell, I even offered to do this project because I happen to be fast and accurate. But nooo, his self-appointed keeper wouldn’t let anyone near it as usual. I even had to ask him, what is your obsession with this guy? I think I need to separate you.

My mood keeps alternating between furious and more-furious. It’s like when I had The Kid as my problem. This one is more useful, granted. But my department has been the one targeted for cuts all year. If by some grace of God I am not the next target and can help choose the target, well. I won’t pick anyone who helps me look good. That’s for sure.



I heard a rumor …

September 27th, 2017, 10:20 AM by Goddess

That someone in my recent past may want to come back.

They didn’t call me, of course.

In fact, I didn’t even hear their voice for a long, long time. Till today.

My immediate response was terror. I don’t know why. They can’t hurt me anymore.

But they can’t help or comfort or amuse or reassure me anymore, either. That feeling washed over me too.

I was also hoping they were happy. Or, at least, done coming off as somewhat gleeful at the havoc they wreaked, and actually happy with their decision.

So if they really want to come back, at least I’ve already gone through my stages of grief and can have a normal, human reaction in person.



(N)onward ho

July 20th, 2017, 8:31 PM by Goddess

After you give up your would-be affair frog-prince to stay with the belching, farting, sneezing, honking, Lysol-cloud riding, micromanaging funky ass, you can’t really tell him to shove a fly up his froggy butt because you just lit your backup lily pad on fire.

I predicted this. And again, I’m not sure it’s worse than moving into the affair frog/prince’s pad. But it was nice to dream of kicking frogpies across the pond even though you knew you couldn’t base your decision on the joy you would derive from it.



8 minutes between the off-ramp and the off-kilter

July 14th, 2017, 6:05 PM by Goddess

On traffic …