It's dark, it's loud, it's packed with over 100 girls. Some of them are naked, some are clothed, all of us are drunk. We're currently screaming at a classmate to do "Love It or Hate It" on stage while singles go flying every direction. I barely hear the guy behind me asking if he can sit in the adjacent stool.
So he asks again - only this time he taps my shoulder.
"Can I have this seat?"
I know that a lot of guys get upset when girls are sarcastic and/or bratty...but honestly...why do they make it so dang easy for me. Questions like the above are just screaming for a smart-ass response. Must-make-joke...must-tease...willpower-draining....
"Sure!"
Willpower restored. I am a nice girl...really.
"I'm Rich, who are you?"
"Katy" I blurt.
He shakes his head like he can't hear me, and he probably can't. He leans in closer.
"Julie" He leans in again, this time confused. His hand has suddenly found mine and is doing that strange half handshake, half caress thing. He looks like he can't decide if he want to kiss my hand or break my fingers. It's creepy. I yell into his ear "Mary".
"I can't hear you!" He yells back before leaning in close enough that I can feel his breath down my neck. I'm sure he's getting a good view of cleavage from that position. I'm getting a good whiff of too much beer. "My name is Lacy!"
And if you believe that I have a bridge I can sell you. I am a semi-nice girl...really.
"I'm from England. I don't really know how to talk to you American girls. I really want to tell you that you're hot...but I don't know how."
I can't really tell if he actually is English. He either has an accent or he's just really drunk and slurring his words oddly. English or not his hand is beginning to worm it's way up my thigh.
"I'm sure you'll get the hang of it eventually"
"I would really like to sleep with you."
See, you already have the hang of it.
"Aw, that's nice Rich, but I'm married so I'm not going to sleep with you."
"What if I was more aggressive. I could change your mind."
Change my mind? You have to be pretty aggressive to go back in time four years and tell an excited bride that in four years time some guy in a strip club is going to tell her she's hot and fuckable and that she'll be sad she was married so she should call the whole thing off.
"You couldn't change my mind even if you were attractive!"
I am an occasional-nice girl
"Why don't we go out tonight?" He grabs me by my hips and pulls me off my chair and into him. I quickly disengage myself from the drunk semi-British man and push him away. Vaguely I wonder if this will turn into a bar fight. I size him up...I'm less drunk than he is, but I'm also about 100 lbs less person than he is. Throwing a punch would not be a good idea.
But it'd be fun.
I am a slightly mean girl.
I walk away and re-join my group of girls. We automatically form the patented "Cock-block Circle" and everything is fine till I feel fingers scratching at my back.
"Why do your friends hate me?" It's Rich...duh.
"You're a man."
I am just a plain brat.
"I'm buying drinks for all of you. You'll come and talk to me now."
"No amount of alcohol will make me want to talk to you."
I'm a bitch.
"I can change your mind." His hand grabs my ass and the other slides down into my jeans. I move before his fingers find anything else to scratch.
Fortunately I move right into a bouncer. Who unfortunately for Rich grabs him by the collar.
"Did he touch any of you girls?"
"No no," Rich mumbles "We're just dancing."
"He touch you?" Says Rich's new friend.
Rich looks at me pleadingly. I feel kind bad cause he had a pretty tight collar on to begin with. Then I don't feel all that bad cause my jeans were pretty tight too.
"Yep. He stuck his hands down my pants."
And Rich was gone. In amongst admonitions of "You don't touch my girls and you don't touch these girls" I hear Rich with a real British type accent:
"You Bitch!"
No. I am an American Bitch.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Monday, May 22, 2006
Inconvenience
Living near the Capitol of my Country and the Residence of the Leader of the Free World, I expect a few kinks in the flow of transportation. I expect, when going down to D.C. and driving through the Diplomatic District that I may come across a few lags in traffic and possibly a closed road here or there. I am also used to finding the 95 has backed up the entrance to the 32 because our dear President decided to take his car out for a burger, or whatever it is he eats...puppies, small children, the dreams of small business owners...Oh wait - that's Dick Cheney.
Regardless, what I mean to say is I expect a little trouble to come into my life since I sometimes venture towards D.C. I can deal with this. Rather I be inconvenienced than have my country thrown into turmoil over a dead President. Take all the time you need to clear those streets boys...I'll wait.
However, I do not expect the President to muck up travel plans elsewhere. Like today. Today most of my supervisors were in some city in the Midwest somewhere. And all of them were headed home. Today, early. Operation Headed-Home was huge. Tons of people on different flights, all needing rides and tickets and directions and who knows what else. Everything was scheduled to the minute. From our command center on the East Coast we coordinated and moved 40+ whiny, picky, grouchy, timid little executives from hotels to cars to airports. And it was going swimmingly for a few hours.
When they closed the airports, and the freeways, and all the streets. And apparently Starbucks.
Why did they close all these very important things in a living, working, commercial city?
Because The President of the United States had come to town. He was gracing everyone with his prescence...and a speech on dining out.
I'd like to say that my company is important. I'd like to say that the work we do everyday helps people. I'd like to be able to say I'm a part of something important like feeding people around the world or distributing medicine. I would love to say that our company provides a service that is vital to the structure and economy of at least our country, if not the world. I'd like to say that, but it's not, I'm not and our goal is make money.
Or more to the point, spend it. On stupid things like meetings in Midwest Cities where everyone talks about dining out.
A luxury that a lot of people don't have.
And yet the President thought it'd be a good idea to disrupt commerce, airlines and my freaking Monday by talking about something that only effects the privileged few. Like he doesn't have anything better to do!
I got news for you jack...most of my bosses didn't vote last time...but I did...and I AM TAKING NOTES!
The irony of this whole thing is during the hub-bub and craziness of rearranging flights and hotels and cars I knew something that very few people get to know. Where the President is that day. Well I knew, and a couple thousand people who heard him speak. Yet, though I was privy to this special information, though I could say without a doubt what the Leader of the Free World, a man I have never met, was and what he was doing at that very moment....I lost my boss.
Poof.
Can't find him.
Left a few thousand messages, called his wife, called his dog, had a maid break-in his door. Still don't know where he is. And I bet he's screening my phone calls.
Bet the Secret Service doesn't have that problem.
Regardless, what I mean to say is I expect a little trouble to come into my life since I sometimes venture towards D.C. I can deal with this. Rather I be inconvenienced than have my country thrown into turmoil over a dead President. Take all the time you need to clear those streets boys...I'll wait.
However, I do not expect the President to muck up travel plans elsewhere. Like today. Today most of my supervisors were in some city in the Midwest somewhere. And all of them were headed home. Today, early. Operation Headed-Home was huge. Tons of people on different flights, all needing rides and tickets and directions and who knows what else. Everything was scheduled to the minute. From our command center on the East Coast we coordinated and moved 40+ whiny, picky, grouchy, timid little executives from hotels to cars to airports. And it was going swimmingly for a few hours.
When they closed the airports, and the freeways, and all the streets. And apparently Starbucks.
Why did they close all these very important things in a living, working, commercial city?
Because The President of the United States had come to town. He was gracing everyone with his prescence...and a speech on dining out.
I'd like to say that my company is important. I'd like to say that the work we do everyday helps people. I'd like to be able to say I'm a part of something important like feeding people around the world or distributing medicine. I would love to say that our company provides a service that is vital to the structure and economy of at least our country, if not the world. I'd like to say that, but it's not, I'm not and our goal is make money.
Or more to the point, spend it. On stupid things like meetings in Midwest Cities where everyone talks about dining out.
A luxury that a lot of people don't have.
And yet the President thought it'd be a good idea to disrupt commerce, airlines and my freaking Monday by talking about something that only effects the privileged few. Like he doesn't have anything better to do!
I got news for you jack...most of my bosses didn't vote last time...but I did...and I AM TAKING NOTES!
The irony of this whole thing is during the hub-bub and craziness of rearranging flights and hotels and cars I knew something that very few people get to know. Where the President is that day. Well I knew, and a couple thousand people who heard him speak. Yet, though I was privy to this special information, though I could say without a doubt what the Leader of the Free World, a man I have never met, was and what he was doing at that very moment....I lost my boss.
Poof.
Can't find him.
Left a few thousand messages, called his wife, called his dog, had a maid break-in his door. Still don't know where he is. And I bet he's screening my phone calls.
Bet the Secret Service doesn't have that problem.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Enter at Your Own Risk
Today I went to work in a pair of jeans and my sorta beat-up tennis shoes.
All so I could fulfill the "Other Duties" part of my job description. The "other duty" being packing all the files in all 90 of our file cabinets into little tiny boxes.
And it's not that I mind either. I like doing physical stuff. Every so often I want to climb into the recess hole near the attic and search for old easels and files marked "Beef Confirmation 1997". I don't mind filing thousands upon thousands of reports into boxes. As an organization fetishist I enjoy looking at large piles of brown boxes all in a row. It's like a garden, a garden of spreadsheets.
But for some reason my cube is always the basis of operations for things like this. And because all the boxes and lids and pens and copies and rulers and coffee ends up on my desk, so do all the mismatch things that can't fit or don't go in the pretty storage boxes.
My cube is where things come to spawn and die.
This morning I had a few expense reports, a couple of lunch trays, and a few contracts.
This afternoon I have a dry-erase board, a lamp-shade, four cups of cold coffee, three copies of "Introduction to Access 2002", photocopies of "Powerpoint Intermediate 2002", seven Employee Handbooks from five years back, a book of Company Profits - also from five years back, someone's jacket, a book on leadership, a broken printer, ten expired markers and a box full of foam peaches.
And a partridge in a pear tree!
Well hopefully not.
Yet, as I continue to work at this desk for the next 30 days I'll just leave all this crap in here. And gain more, accumulate this and that and the other until finally my boss will come barge in, trip over the kitchen sink and crack his skull open on the sharp edge of the page holder that has no pages in it.
One can hope.
All so I could fulfill the "Other Duties" part of my job description. The "other duty" being packing all the files in all 90 of our file cabinets into little tiny boxes.
And it's not that I mind either. I like doing physical stuff. Every so often I want to climb into the recess hole near the attic and search for old easels and files marked "Beef Confirmation 1997". I don't mind filing thousands upon thousands of reports into boxes. As an organization fetishist I enjoy looking at large piles of brown boxes all in a row. It's like a garden, a garden of spreadsheets.
But for some reason my cube is always the basis of operations for things like this. And because all the boxes and lids and pens and copies and rulers and coffee ends up on my desk, so do all the mismatch things that can't fit or don't go in the pretty storage boxes.
My cube is where things come to spawn and die.
This morning I had a few expense reports, a couple of lunch trays, and a few contracts.
This afternoon I have a dry-erase board, a lamp-shade, four cups of cold coffee, three copies of "Introduction to Access 2002", photocopies of "Powerpoint Intermediate 2002", seven Employee Handbooks from five years back, a book of Company Profits - also from five years back, someone's jacket, a book on leadership, a broken printer, ten expired markers and a box full of foam peaches.
And a partridge in a pear tree!
Well hopefully not.
Yet, as I continue to work at this desk for the next 30 days I'll just leave all this crap in here. And gain more, accumulate this and that and the other until finally my boss will come barge in, trip over the kitchen sink and crack his skull open on the sharp edge of the page holder that has no pages in it.
One can hope.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
New Trick
I discovered a new trick last night. I realized, quite spontaneously, that I can tap dance in knee-high, 6-inch heel boots. Not just tap dance, but do a traveling triple time-step AND a little soft shoe.
Sometimes life throws you a good surprise.
Sometimes life throws you a good surprise.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Flirt-Power!
As a young girl of hormonal-age I was surprisingly not boy crazy. I was so "not-boy-crazy" that my Father, of all people, would often throw his hands in the air and cry "I sure hope you get interested in boys soon!" I'd often get thrown by this comment. Was I supposed to be interested in boys already? What was there to be interested in? What was the whole boy draw? As far as I could tell they spent most of their time jumping off things and blowing stuff up. I was so worried that I wasn't into boys that for awhile I thought I may in fact be a complete and total lesbian.
Interestingly enough, my girlfriends did the same things my boyfriends did - meaning they all jumped off things and blew stuff up - I'm not sure if that means I'm naturally attracted to pyromaniacs or that my significant others were naturally attracted to girls who had a morbid sense of entertainment.
Now, however, at the age where I should have a handle on my hormones I am decidedly boy-crazy. Not just boys, but men, older, younger, tall, short, dark hair, light hair...if it moves...I'm interested.
I'm not sure where this came from. I'd like to think I found myself. Tapped into that inner female-ness that makes men want to crawl through the mud. To get to me - of course. I'd like to think that my self-confidence has allowed me to open up, be brazen and guilt-free about my attraction. Through my growth as an individual I have accepted all facets of my personality, both intellectually and physically. I am woman, I am sexual, hear me roar!!!
I'd like to say all these things - but I'm probably just a narcissistic flirt.
Not that I'm going to apologize. Because it's fun. And honestly I've gone too many years being quiet and shy and reserved. Unsexual and undemanding. If I think you have a cute butt...I'm inclined to make my preference known. Probably by pinching it.
Deal with it.
This is all by way of an announcement to the participants of the Spring Micro-Brew Festival this Saturday. To the men with the Honey Beer who thought I was a stripper, to the boys selling t-shirts who were overly interested in the pockets of my jeans, to the guy who thought I should be buying an xtra-small pair of panties (yes, that's what I said!) rather than small, and most importantly to the pirate who liked my smile and had a very nice...dagger:
It wasn't the beer, it was all for you. You go ahead and keep looking at my boobs boys, I'll keep looking at you!
Interestingly enough, my girlfriends did the same things my boyfriends did - meaning they all jumped off things and blew stuff up - I'm not sure if that means I'm naturally attracted to pyromaniacs or that my significant others were naturally attracted to girls who had a morbid sense of entertainment.
Now, however, at the age where I should have a handle on my hormones I am decidedly boy-crazy. Not just boys, but men, older, younger, tall, short, dark hair, light hair...if it moves...I'm interested.
I'm not sure where this came from. I'd like to think I found myself. Tapped into that inner female-ness that makes men want to crawl through the mud. To get to me - of course. I'd like to think that my self-confidence has allowed me to open up, be brazen and guilt-free about my attraction. Through my growth as an individual I have accepted all facets of my personality, both intellectually and physically. I am woman, I am sexual, hear me roar!!!
I'd like to say all these things - but I'm probably just a narcissistic flirt.
Not that I'm going to apologize. Because it's fun. And honestly I've gone too many years being quiet and shy and reserved. Unsexual and undemanding. If I think you have a cute butt...I'm inclined to make my preference known. Probably by pinching it.
Deal with it.
This is all by way of an announcement to the participants of the Spring Micro-Brew Festival this Saturday. To the men with the Honey Beer who thought I was a stripper, to the boys selling t-shirts who were overly interested in the pockets of my jeans, to the guy who thought I should be buying an xtra-small pair of panties (yes, that's what I said!) rather than small, and most importantly to the pirate who liked my smile and had a very nice...dagger:
It wasn't the beer, it was all for you. You go ahead and keep looking at my boobs boys, I'll keep looking at you!
Monday, May 08, 2006
New Rules for Work
Dawn Marie posted about some story involving mice and cheese. I really like that story - thanks Dawn.
But that reminds me of a place my husband hatched the other day. From here on in all office should have mandatory naptimes. Preferably on those bamboo mats we had in Hawaii. (I like those mats.) But regardless of sleeping arrangements naps must be had.
Followed by juice.
Apple juice.
And cookies.
And now cheese too.
Today at a very serious interview when I was finally stumped for a question to ask like "So what would my expense account be?" or some such crap I was tempted to ask:
"Do you have nap time? And is there anywhere to keep my Shera Thermos of apple juice cold?"
I am two hands, two feet, one nose, and two ears old. I am alllll grown-up!!!
But that reminds me of a place my husband hatched the other day. From here on in all office should have mandatory naptimes. Preferably on those bamboo mats we had in Hawaii. (I like those mats.) But regardless of sleeping arrangements naps must be had.
Followed by juice.
Apple juice.
And cookies.
And now cheese too.
Today at a very serious interview when I was finally stumped for a question to ask like "So what would my expense account be?" or some such crap I was tempted to ask:
"Do you have nap time? And is there anywhere to keep my Shera Thermos of apple juice cold?"
I am two hands, two feet, one nose, and two ears old. I am alllll grown-up!!!
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Transient
What are you going to do?
That's the question that invariably slips past every persons lips now a days. As we start to count down the days till we are officially all "Laid-off" or "Asked to Leave" the nail-biting is starting. My co-workers come and whisper at me trying to find out my plan. Someone them just want to gloat because they found something, some of them want to know if I have any leads but can't bring themselves to ask. Can't bring themselves to beg. And some of them are just glad that there is someone else out there as miserable as they are.
What am I doing? Same as always. Pack up my stuff (a F1 Poster, a model of a Mini Cooper and a peach shaped stress-ball my boss gave me last month) and move on to my next job. It's not like I haven't done it before. This is the way it's always been. At least to me. Find a job, make some money, then leave. Whether it be a company decision, or your own, nothing is going to last.
But here, on the East Coast, in this company - everything is different. No one leaves, whole families live in the same town. No one leaves the state. And they work for the same company for years, for lifetimes. My cube mate is ending a career of 22 years with our company. He thought he'd be here forever. Some people have been here longer. I can't imagine living in the same state for 5 years, much less with the same company.
Who is the naive one here? I don't believe anything will last, I don't think that the companies I work for will be around for very long. Or if they do they won't need me for long. They're sand-castles paid with seashells. I want to grab up as many shells as I can before the exchange rates go down. But here, the steadfast Marylanders believe that a Corporation is a thing of stone, a mountain that will not be moved.
Is it because my generation is used to change? We grew up using virtual tools. Everything we had was ethereal, intangible. Friends were made of text and relationships were lightening quick - and fleeting. Even in the real world we grew up knowing that marriage wasn't forever, parents didn't have to take care of their kids if they didn't want too, and home wasn't safe. Nothing inside or outside of technology was lasting, so of course as adults we can't trust that our livelihood's would be guaranteed.
Or maybe it's because my generation is used to surplus? Yes this company is growing smaller, is replacing me with lower-wage workers in India and an intelligent software that can talk. But no matter, there is work elsewhere. I'll get a job. It will never be a good job, I'll never be able to hold a good salary, but I'll have work, and money and proceed to spend it on my car payments. For every business that fails there are five more willing to take their place. And when they fail more will come in. There is always more.
And yet, maybe it would be nice to have less, but have it for longer.
So then I might know what I was going to do.
That's the question that invariably slips past every persons lips now a days. As we start to count down the days till we are officially all "Laid-off" or "Asked to Leave" the nail-biting is starting. My co-workers come and whisper at me trying to find out my plan. Someone them just want to gloat because they found something, some of them want to know if I have any leads but can't bring themselves to ask. Can't bring themselves to beg. And some of them are just glad that there is someone else out there as miserable as they are.
What am I doing? Same as always. Pack up my stuff (a F1 Poster, a model of a Mini Cooper and a peach shaped stress-ball my boss gave me last month) and move on to my next job. It's not like I haven't done it before. This is the way it's always been. At least to me. Find a job, make some money, then leave. Whether it be a company decision, or your own, nothing is going to last.
But here, on the East Coast, in this company - everything is different. No one leaves, whole families live in the same town. No one leaves the state. And they work for the same company for years, for lifetimes. My cube mate is ending a career of 22 years with our company. He thought he'd be here forever. Some people have been here longer. I can't imagine living in the same state for 5 years, much less with the same company.
Who is the naive one here? I don't believe anything will last, I don't think that the companies I work for will be around for very long. Or if they do they won't need me for long. They're sand-castles paid with seashells. I want to grab up as many shells as I can before the exchange rates go down. But here, the steadfast Marylanders believe that a Corporation is a thing of stone, a mountain that will not be moved.
Is it because my generation is used to change? We grew up using virtual tools. Everything we had was ethereal, intangible. Friends were made of text and relationships were lightening quick - and fleeting. Even in the real world we grew up knowing that marriage wasn't forever, parents didn't have to take care of their kids if they didn't want too, and home wasn't safe. Nothing inside or outside of technology was lasting, so of course as adults we can't trust that our livelihood's would be guaranteed.
Or maybe it's because my generation is used to surplus? Yes this company is growing smaller, is replacing me with lower-wage workers in India and an intelligent software that can talk. But no matter, there is work elsewhere. I'll get a job. It will never be a good job, I'll never be able to hold a good salary, but I'll have work, and money and proceed to spend it on my car payments. For every business that fails there are five more willing to take their place. And when they fail more will come in. There is always more.
And yet, maybe it would be nice to have less, but have it for longer.
So then I might know what I was going to do.
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