Gas just hit $4 a gallon, and there's a chance we'll see snow in San Francisco tomorrow. The end is nigh.
Okay, not really. But it's still pretty freaking crazy over here.
Life is...life. Deadlines are looming, an epic battle is waging between my immune system and the Office Cold, and I am losing sleep for no apparent reason. Actually, there is an apparent reason: I can't convince my body that it's okay to go to bed before 1 am. It's a real problem, you guys.
I'm starting to sound like a broken record, but I feel like I have zero time to do anything but work, eat, and sleep. Still kinda loving it, though. Granted, I think I need a hobby, because I find myself checking my email compulsively and I really don't want to become that person. Rock climbing was supposed to be that hobby, but I'm finding it very difficult to set aside two whole hours for the gym, AND find a partner, AND muster up the willpower necessary to actually do anything but veg out on the couch. Maybe I'm a lost cause.
Still, work is great. Ridiculously busy, horrifically stressful, pushing me so far out of my comfort zone you wouldn't believe...but great. And when it seems like I just can't take anymore and miiiiight just snap, I take joy in the little things: bonding with my coworkers over a common enemy, debating the probability that one of our writers has multiple personalities, or listening to the jingle that the electric kettle plays whenever the water starts to boil. Ah, yes...love is in the air. Not happily-ever-after-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-this-company kind of love, but still love.
Ugh...I just used the "L" word. It really must be the end of the world.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Cubicle Monkey
I am one. Seriously. Every time we run up against a deadline (namely, every month), I start living in the writer's room. Technically it's not a cubicle - I don't have one of those - but "writer's room monkey" doesn't have the same sort of ring to it.
It could be worse. At least I get to talk to people, which is something the real cubicle monkeys don't get to do. Whoever controls the thermostat is a sadist, though...turning on the air conditioning when it's cold and wet and rainy outside. Evil.
My birthday happened. That was kind of a thing. There was a family dinner at a delicious German restaurant in San Jose. Meat. Cheese-covered extravagances. Apple strudel. Oh, and liters of beer. That's right. Liters. Of beer. The food coma lasted for days. Okay, that's a lie. It lasted for about an hour and then I had to stuff myself full of birthday cake. But then that food coma lasted for days. Mmmm.
There's not much else going on. I've been so tightly scheduled these days that I haven't had more than five minutes to do anything but work, eat, sleep, and gym.* And you guys know how much I enjoy being lazy. What a shame.
I have other things to tell you guys, but they can wait until our next Skype session.
*It's a verb now.
It could be worse. At least I get to talk to people, which is something the real cubicle monkeys don't get to do. Whoever controls the thermostat is a sadist, though...turning on the air conditioning when it's cold and wet and rainy outside. Evil.
My birthday happened. That was kind of a thing. There was a family dinner at a delicious German restaurant in San Jose. Meat. Cheese-covered extravagances. Apple strudel. Oh, and liters of beer. That's right. Liters. Of beer. The food coma lasted for days. Okay, that's a lie. It lasted for about an hour and then I had to stuff myself full of birthday cake. But then that food coma lasted for days. Mmmm.
There's not much else going on. I've been so tightly scheduled these days that I haven't had more than five minutes to do anything but work, eat, sleep, and gym.* And you guys know how much I enjoy being lazy. What a shame.
I have other things to tell you guys, but they can wait until our next Skype session.
*It's a verb now.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Not So Common Anymore
The topic of tonight's post, friends, is common courtesy. Wow, that sounded really passive aggressive. I'm not accusing you guys of being uncourteous*, I swear! No, the target of my ire is my next door neighbor.
I shall call him George.
No, George is too awesome of a name for him.
I shall call him...Wonston. That's right. Wonston. It was going to be Winston, but the "i" and the "o" are really close together on the keyboard and it's too late to turn back now, so Wonston it is.
Wonston has been living next door to me for a couple of years. I've never spoken to him (our neighborhood is not what you might call "friendly"), so I have no idea how many people actually live in his house...but they have seven cars. Seven freaking cars, people. Two are parked in their driveway. Three are in front of their house. And two are in front of my house. Most of the cars rotate in and out - sometimes the Jeep is in the driveway, sometimes it's the Corolla with the "Jesus Loves You" license plate frame - but the ones in front of my house never move. They're just there...in front of my house...forever.
You know what, Wonston? I would like to park in front of my house.
I live on a corner, Wonston. You know that, because you live next to me. Around said corner, there is room for at least six of your multitude of cars. Why do you insist on trying to fit both of your humongotron pickups in the space between my driveway and the handicap ramp for the crosswalk? This isn't the twilight zone. Neither of them magically shrink when the other is present. You either block off the ramp, leaving wheelchair-bound folks SOL, or you extend a good half-foot into my barely-big-enough-for-one-car driveway, forcing me to go off-roading every time I stop home for lunch.
Wonston is my mortal enemy. And he knows it, too. (Why yes, I am being melodramatic. Why do you ask?) Last week, the parking duel came to a head: I was walking up my driveway as he was leaving his house. I opened the gate, turned, and spotted him. We made eye contact. I glanced meaningfully at my car, then at his, and looked at him. He gave me a nod, seeming to understand. He walked to his car. I loitered at the mailbox. He turned the ignition. It roared to life. He looked at me. Smiled. He got something from the glove box, turned the car off, and walked back inside. CURSES, I thought. Curses indeed.
Also, before you say that I should be a little less film noir with my narrative and actually talk to the guy, there is some shady stuff going on at that house. Unless he just has a bunch of friends who enjoy stopping by at all hours for a quick chat through the windows of their cars. Yeah. I'm sure that's it.
Pretty exciting, right? See what all of you are missing?
First day of bike commuting to work tomorrow. I bought a bell. Here's hoping I don't die.
*It should be a word.
I shall call him George.
No, George is too awesome of a name for him.
I shall call him...Wonston. That's right. Wonston. It was going to be Winston, but the "i" and the "o" are really close together on the keyboard and it's too late to turn back now, so Wonston it is.
Wonston has been living next door to me for a couple of years. I've never spoken to him (our neighborhood is not what you might call "friendly"), so I have no idea how many people actually live in his house...but they have seven cars. Seven freaking cars, people. Two are parked in their driveway. Three are in front of their house. And two are in front of my house. Most of the cars rotate in and out - sometimes the Jeep is in the driveway, sometimes it's the Corolla with the "Jesus Loves You" license plate frame - but the ones in front of my house never move. They're just there...in front of my house...forever.
You know what, Wonston? I would like to park in front of my house.
I live on a corner, Wonston. You know that, because you live next to me. Around said corner, there is room for at least six of your multitude of cars. Why do you insist on trying to fit both of your humongotron pickups in the space between my driveway and the handicap ramp for the crosswalk? This isn't the twilight zone. Neither of them magically shrink when the other is present. You either block off the ramp, leaving wheelchair-bound folks SOL, or you extend a good half-foot into my barely-big-enough-for-one-car driveway, forcing me to go off-roading every time I stop home for lunch.
Wonston is my mortal enemy. And he knows it, too. (Why yes, I am being melodramatic. Why do you ask?) Last week, the parking duel came to a head: I was walking up my driveway as he was leaving his house. I opened the gate, turned, and spotted him. We made eye contact. I glanced meaningfully at my car, then at his, and looked at him. He gave me a nod, seeming to understand. He walked to his car. I loitered at the mailbox. He turned the ignition. It roared to life. He looked at me. Smiled. He got something from the glove box, turned the car off, and walked back inside. CURSES, I thought. Curses indeed.
Also, before you say that I should be a little less film noir with my narrative and actually talk to the guy, there is some shady stuff going on at that house. Unless he just has a bunch of friends who enjoy stopping by at all hours for a quick chat through the windows of their cars. Yeah. I'm sure that's it.
Pretty exciting, right? See what all of you are missing?
First day of bike commuting to work tomorrow. I bought a bell. Here's hoping I don't die.
*It should be a word.
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