May 10, 2005
Updates!  Updates!  Updates! 


Day #2 of my boss' vacation -- or "Hell Week," as I am lovingly referring to it -- so no time for anything more than a handful of quick cranky updates:


  • Mothers Day.

    I had a lovely Mothers Day, thankyouverymuchforasking.

    Jaymi sent flowers to my office last Thursday -- two dozen roses, in various colors -- and they are still sitting proudly (if somewhat droopily) on the front desk in front of me this morning. She also sent me a nice little silver ring inlaid with opal and black onyx, a cookbook created by the staff at the hospital where she works, and a lifetime supply of Band-Aids.(Don't ask.)  
    All three of the Tots checked in by phone at various points throughout the day and evening to wish me a Happy Mother's Day. Kacie called me from a bowling alley late Sunday night, shouting to be heard above the din of crashing pins and inebriated league champions. ("You're bowling on your night off?" I asked in surprise. She gigglingly reminded me that now that she's quit her job at the Box Factory, "EVERY night" is her night off. Sigh.) 

    David and I spent most of the day Sunday in downtown San Francisco, browsing for Warren Smith CDs at Amoeba Records, walking around the Haight, splitting the world's best pepperoni-and-black-olive pizza at Giorgio's in the Richmond District.  Once we got home, we sat in bed and had thick wedges of supermarket lemon meringue pie (the diet starts next week, I swear to god) and watched the Sunday night cartoons on FOX. I was sound asleep ten minutes into "Family Guy." 

    All in all, a most satisfying Mother's Day.




  • David's Birthday.

    David had a lovely birthday on Monday, thankyouverymuchforasking. 

    His boss and co-workers surprised him with a cake, halfway through the day, and then  they all stood around his desk and basked in his vast reserves of grooviness and stuff for a while. I sent him the standard $50 Amazon gift certificate -- a rather bloodless and unimaginative birthday "gift," if you ask me, but it's the only thing he ever really WANTS -- and we enjoyed a spontaneous Bed Picnic that evening, with our old favorite Bed Picnic Bruschetta and the leftover Giorgio's pizza and lemon meringue pie. (The diet starts next week, I swear to god.)

    All in all, he says, a most satisfying 49th birthday.




  • My performance review.

    I've survived another annual Performance Review.

    It took place at the very last minute on Friday, as I stood in the doorway of JoAnne's office with my purse and my laptop bag slung over my shoulder, getting ready to leave for the weekend. She handed me the envelope with all my review information enclosed -- "It's pretty much the same stuff as last year," she said, meaning that there were the usual complaints from my co-workers about me being prickly and unapproachable and not dancing for joy when they drop 48,897,621-page Soil Density Report requests into my *In* Box at 4 p.m. -- and I stuffed it into my purse and said "Thanks" and wished her a nice vacation. And that, pretty much, was that. No fuss. No muss. No tears. No gigantic emotional meltdown. 

    The ideal Performance Review, in other words. 

    I didn't bother opening up the envelope to read the review comments, by the way  ... 

    ...  because I'd  [cough] already read them. The day the Confidential envelope arrived in the overnight from Corporate, I managed to open it and take a quicky sneaky peek at the contents, before I re-sealed the envelope and passed it along to JoAnne.  And yes, I know that that was unethical and underhanded and all kinds of wrong, but I just couldn't stand the suspense. JoAnne's comments about me were generally favorable -- "There is no doubt that the quality and quantity of Seca's work is and always has been excellent," she says at one point -- plus I was given my token .00005¢/hour raise. (Woohoo!  McDonald's Dollar Menu for EVERYBODY!) All in all, things turned out pretty well this year.

    Now I've got 362 days to start dreading the next Performance Review.




  • My Stoopid Infected Toe.

    Yes, I'm still battling with my stoopid infected toe. (And if you're tired of hearing about it, imagine how *I* feel.) The good news is that I have an appointment this afternoon with a podiatric specialist.  A REAL foot doctor this time, in other words, rather than a bored inattentive Doogie Howser clone in the Kaiser "Urgent Care" office. We might actually see some results this time.

    The bad news (if you're a big squeamish baby, like my husband) is that I'm bringing my CAMERA with me.




  • Hell Week.

    What can I tell you?  Hell Week goes on ... and on ... and on ...

    The thing I hate the most about the whole thing is the fact that I'm continually having to remind people that JoAnne is on vacation. It doesn't matter that she sent out not one but TWO interoffice e-mails, days before she left, informing everyone that she would be out of the office for these five days, and that they should come to Secra for all their quadruple-urgent admin needs in her absence.  It doesn't matter that she recorded a vacation voicemail greeting, or that her e-mail bounces back an automatic "Out Of Office" message to the sender, or that I have affixed an 11" x 17" sign to her office door, written in heavy black Magic Marker, announcing that "JOANNE IS OUT OF THE OFFICE UNTIL 5/16."  At least twice a day, usually when I'm elbow-deep in Soil Density Reports, one of the lesser geonerds will approach me, looking all sad and baffled, and whine "Is JoAnnnnnnne coming innnnnnnnn today?" 

    Arrrrggggh.

    I keep reminding myself that eventually it will be over, and JoAnne will return from her vacation, and things will go back to normal. Then I can go back to hating my job for the usual reasons -- lack of respect from my (male) co-workers, claustrophobic working conditions, the fact that a blind chimp on crack could do my job -- instead of hating it because I'm stressed and overworked and doing the work of two people. Plus I have to transfer the fudking phones to LOS ANGELES every damn time I have to go to the bathroom.

    Stay tuned.


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*MY* meatloaf recipe is infinitely better
than the meatloaf recipe in your cookbook, btw.
but you knew that already.