I'll Box Your Ears!
That's what I look like on the train home, when the hot dad specifically looks for me and sits with me so we can talk. Yesterday he was really, really thrilled I knew that "okra" is the four-letter vegetable in gumbo, and, downward, that "turk" is a native of Istanbul. I thought that one was kind of a gimme, but if he wants to consider me his crossword oracle, I'm not going to fight it.
Come to think of it, I used to rant semi-anually about the lack of oracle positions available in today's job market. Those ancient Greek bitches had it made. People brave deadly journeys to see you and bring you gifts, and in exchange you spout something vaguely mystic-sounding and send 'em home. Your prophecy don't make no sense? "It will become clear in time." There's no greater excuse for incompetence than that. You get to be the ultimate infallible earthly authority, with full pay, yearly vacations on the Greek isles, and benefits including all the free goats your heart could ever long for.
Let's pretend this is a witty goat-related segue right into the subject of work, yesterday during the course of which Brian got a call from the IT department. "Get out of the test database!" they exclaimed. "What are you talking about?" Brian inquired. "You're in the fake database. Only log into the real one," they curtly replied. "I'm in the I use every day, the one that you told me to use during training," he countered. "Yeah, well, that's the wrong one," they snipped, and hung up.
There are four versions of the database, each named something completely inscrutable like KAPMIG or PROD. They told us to use KAPMIG. We did three months of work in KAPMIG. Turns out that KAPMIG is the computer equivalent of Mr. Rogers's Land of Make-Believe. Every bit of my work has been in the just-for-shits database.
You would think I would be livid about this, wouldn't you? I should be thisclose to quitting. I'm not. Why? Because I updated everything in three hours. Follow me on this one; I have stretched three hours of work into three months of work. THREE MONTHS. I don't know whether I should be given a medal or...I don't know what, but be aware I tried really hard to work in the phrase "box your ears" right here.
Today is December 9, known in some circles as Brad-and-Kathy-mas. We've had Christmas on the ninth since sophomore year, and it sucks SO MUCH that we're 535 miles apart, and all his Christmas presents are sitting on the floor of my room, which is not in Burton. I may give Kai her present tonight just to keep the tradition alive, but it won't be the SAME.
Another change of subject before I start blubbering in my cube and getting snot all over valuable Health Informatics documents. In a moment of total unprofessionalism, I just decided that the gray tights I was wearing didn't go with my outfit so much that I couldn't bear to keep them on any longer. I'll leave you with the image of me slithering, snake-like, out of my pantyhose in a bathroom stall the size of a Kleenex box, replacing my Chuck Taylors on my feet, and speed-walking back to my desk praying no one stops to chat while I've got balled-up lingerie in my hand.