January 10, 2001
Discompooperated

 


 
If Franz has given me nothing else of value in the past two years (besides a jar of spaghetti sauce and a plastic koala bear plate), he has at least added a groovy new word to the *FootNotes* lexicon today:

"Discompooperated."

Isn't it perfect? As words go, doesn't that just totally sum it all up?

"I know things are probably going to be a little discompooperated around there today," he remarked in this morning's ray o'sunshine voicemail message, from the comfort and safety of his hotel room 2,000 miles away. "But I'm sure you're getting everything into order, and we're going to enjoy our new digs."  (Yes, he really says stuff like 'new digs.' That's our Franz: always riding ahead of the hep curve.)

My life -- at least, the career portion of it -- is currently in a state of complete and utter discompooperation.

I got to the Totem Pole Company today ... and I had nowhere to go. The upstairs office -- my beloved little Isolation Booth -- is stripped clean as a turkey wishbone after Thanksgiving dinner, except for my computer and my chair.  My new workspace  --  otherwise known as Downstairs Reception Area Hell  --  is piled to the *rafters* with all of my Executive Ass materials, the contents of my desk, most of the contents of Franz's desk ... and my phone. I couldn't work upstairs for very long today, because although I had a computer and a chair, I had no phone. And I couldn't work downstairs for more than a few minutes, because although I had a phone, I had no computer and no place to sit.

I spent most of the morning on the fudking elevator.

Finally, sometime around noon, I decided This is nuts. I've been working on a painful (but convenient) sinus infection the past couple of days, and I've got what the Tots used to call a "boogery voice" today, meaning that I sound like my face is full of snot. (Which, of course, it is.) That, coupled with the fact that I got a grand total of forty minutes' sleep last night (I kept rewriting that resignation letter in my head) means that I pretty much look and feel like gently microwaved feces today. It didn't take much to convince everyone around me that I needed to go home. They were probably thrilled to pieces to get rid of me, frankly. If I wasn't standing in the doorway of my old office, weeping, I was standing in the doorway of Reception Area Hell, weeping. And either way I was blocking the exits.

David cheerfully picked me up at lunchtime and brought me home to the apartment. I immediately crawled into my p.j.'s, even though it was the middle of the day ... I turned off the phone and all of the lights and curled up in bed, listening to the storm outside our window ... and I took a huge, Benadryl-induced nap for the rest of the afternoon.

I just woke up a few minutes ago. I don't feel better, exactly -- physically or emotionally -- but I don't feel worse, either.

Mostly I just feel sort of ... discompooperated.



one year ago: projection addiction

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