4.29.2005
i am weary
golf day has broken my spirit. 80% of the office is on the links drinking beer. i mixed myself a conciliatory cocktail to... wait, no i didn't... they took the vodka.
Loud Shirt and Visors... Hmmmm
My boss is wearing a jungle-print collared shirt while assistant editor #3 is rocking a visor. My other boss has not yet bothered to remove his sunglasses, perhaps because his pants are a blinding shade of neon.
I don't know what shade. I can't look at it. It's blinding.
Fucking golf days.
I don't know what shade. I can't look at it. It's blinding.
Fucking golf days.
4.28.2005
Wha...?
StatCounter, wtf? Do you lie? 31 hits, and they are not all mine... who are you people? No, I don't care. Keep coming back! Feed my Internet ego!
If I find the time, I'm going to start weekly recaps of America's Next Top Model. Cos that show and its demented beauty wizardry deserve some blogspace. Last night: keep the fatty or go through trouble of touching up Michelle's roots? Dennis and I debate over mugs of mediocre red and remain shocked by the outcome.
Stay tuned!
If I find the time, I'm going to start weekly recaps of America's Next Top Model. Cos that show and its demented beauty wizardry deserve some blogspace. Last night: keep the fatty or go through trouble of touching up Michelle's roots? Dennis and I debate over mugs of mediocre red and remain shocked by the outcome.
Stay tuned!
4.27.2005
I Am A Freakin Tech Guru
First there was last week's double-handed save of the office's phone system... this week, drum roll please... there is nothing so cool. Instead I installed a StatCounter at the bottom of the blog I'm not really supposed to be updating from the office. Now I can see if the site has as much readership as I think it does (that thinking running to about 12, including me and my mother).
But dude, I installed a stat counter! I altered code! I am one renaissance hu-buddy.
"Hu-buddy?"
Initiate thyself:
http://www.chronicle.duke.edu/vnews/display.v/ART/2001/10/01/3d768a749a0b9?in_archive=1
But dude, I installed a stat counter! I altered code! I am one renaissance hu-buddy.
"Hu-buddy?"
Initiate thyself:
http://www.chronicle.duke.edu/vnews/display.v/ART/2001/10/01/3d768a749a0b9?in_archive=1
4.26.2005
Would You Rather...
MissBlotto: if he fedexes them i might cry
FriendofMissBlotto: if he fedexes them, *i* might cry
----------------------
I remember watching Sex and the City with my high school friends on summer breaks in college. We'd gather in the Changs' basement, wandering in and out with ice cream and peeling Blake, Melissa's humpalicious Scottie, off our legs.
"This is what life will be like!" we'd squeal. We'd made similar, similarly dead wrong, pronouncements in high school, watching 10 Things I Hate About You: "Co-ed school! Look what we're missing!" As if Chatham High were stocked with Heath Ledger doppelgangers.
NO my friends, NO. Grown-up life is not like Sex and the City. There are no Fendi bags in my closet, I do not brunch four times a week, no one would smile sympathetically at me in a tutu, and my picture is not on the side of a bus. But wait... something sounds familiar...
Remember that episode when Carrie got broken up with on a Post-It? And Miranda recalled getting dumped by a doorman?
I am experiencing separation via premier shipping service. He cannot bear the thought of touching my hands to return my modest personal effects; he requires the secure separation of a FedEx Pak. My friends, it's a cruel, cruel world.
FriendofMissBlotto: if he fedexes them, *i* might cry
----------------------
I remember watching Sex and the City with my high school friends on summer breaks in college. We'd gather in the Changs' basement, wandering in and out with ice cream and peeling Blake, Melissa's humpalicious Scottie, off our legs.
"This is what life will be like!" we'd squeal. We'd made similar, similarly dead wrong, pronouncements in high school, watching 10 Things I Hate About You: "Co-ed school! Look what we're missing!" As if Chatham High were stocked with Heath Ledger doppelgangers.
NO my friends, NO. Grown-up life is not like Sex and the City. There are no Fendi bags in my closet, I do not brunch four times a week, no one would smile sympathetically at me in a tutu, and my picture is not on the side of a bus. But wait... something sounds familiar...
Remember that episode when Carrie got broken up with on a Post-It? And Miranda recalled getting dumped by a doorman?
I am experiencing separation via premier shipping service. He cannot bear the thought of touching my hands to return my modest personal effects; he requires the secure separation of a FedEx Pak. My friends, it's a cruel, cruel world.
4.25.2005
Exciting Monday
Arrived at work this morning and was told to mind the broken glass--the two offices next to ours were broken into last night. Smash and grab job.
It confuses me, though, that they ignored Cut+Run, as our office is chock full o' editing equipment and other expensive machinery. And snacks! And really good magazines. Seven stocked editing bays versus reams of paper from the copy place next door... stupid thieves.
It confuses me, though, that they ignored Cut+Run, as our office is chock full o' editing equipment and other expensive machinery. And snacks! And really good magazines. Seven stocked editing bays versus reams of paper from the copy place next door... stupid thieves.
4.22.2005
Happy Hour(s)
I went to my first happy hour fully prepared to embrace the love and low-key joy of the happy hour. Dennis and Eugene and I would chat about work over a nice pitcher of Miller Lite or maybe some hot whisky toddies, order some nachos, and return home all warm and fuzzy.
Wha' happened?
One pitcher became three. CP showed up. Meredith our friend and waitress informed that while the bartender wouldn't comp us a pitcher, he'd throw in some shooters. Red-Headed Sluts?
Then the pool-playing. I was a fucking shark. MASTERY. Boys were flinging themselves at this expert breaker. "I really like your wifebeater." Yeah, dipshit, it's a very special undershirt. Three pitchers became five. N. arrived and we ditched those boys, kicked grown men out of our booth, and stayed until the lights came on.
Left the car there. Walked to work this morning. Pain.
Wha' happened?
One pitcher became three. CP showed up. Meredith our friend and waitress informed that while the bartender wouldn't comp us a pitcher, he'd throw in some shooters. Red-Headed Sluts?
Then the pool-playing. I was a fucking shark. MASTERY. Boys were flinging themselves at this expert breaker. "I really like your wifebeater." Yeah, dipshit, it's a very special undershirt. Three pitchers became five. N. arrived and we ditched those boys, kicked grown men out of our booth, and stayed until the lights came on.
Left the car there. Walked to work this morning. Pain.
4.21.2005
By Request
Yaf was sorely disappointed not to see a sanitized report of my weekend on Monday. Dear readers! Were you similarly crushed? Mom?
FRIDAY
Danced with a bunch of homosexuals at the Factory. Grooved with similar clientele at The Abbey. Got down with the Asians at Rage's GAMeboy night. Ate cheeseburgers with Dennis at 3am. Slept.
SATURDAY
Avoided going to the carwash. Pledged with roommate to start South Beach diet on Monday in preparation for our respective 5-year reunions (goodbye, 3am meat patties).
Went to Hollywood.
SUNDAY
Attended church. Parked legally (!) on Main Street, frolicked with small children, and purchased sweet basil and broccoli at the Sunday farmer's market. Compared farmer's markets with roommate and we agree upon a preference for Saturday's on Arizona. Went to car wash and received $4 discount even though I went through without a fill-up. Purchased turkey and lowfat cheese and other SBD-friendly items at Vons, walking longingly past Cheez-It and Dorito aisles. Talked to Mom for a while. Watched Desperate Housewives. Despised self for constant watching of DH as it is so stupid, but it's getting so good; I couldn't possibly stop now! Watched Grey's Anatomy and really despised self for lack of control over TV remote. Will perhaps watch half next week and attempt to write second half for exercise in TV plotting, as don't really care what happens at the end.
Wow! What a wholesome weekend. Cavorting with the damned and watching Bree damn her son among them was about as bad as it got. Right?
FRIDAY
Danced with a bunch of homosexuals at the Factory. Grooved with similar clientele at The Abbey. Got down with the Asians at Rage's GAMeboy night. Ate cheeseburgers with Dennis at 3am. Slept.
SATURDAY
Avoided going to the carwash. Pledged with roommate to start South Beach diet on Monday in preparation for our respective 5-year reunions (goodbye, 3am meat patties).
Went to Hollywood.
SUNDAY
Attended church. Parked legally (!) on Main Street, frolicked with small children, and purchased sweet basil and broccoli at the Sunday farmer's market. Compared farmer's markets with roommate and we agree upon a preference for Saturday's on Arizona. Went to car wash and received $4 discount even though I went through without a fill-up. Purchased turkey and lowfat cheese and other SBD-friendly items at Vons, walking longingly past Cheez-It and Dorito aisles. Talked to Mom for a while. Watched Desperate Housewives. Despised self for constant watching of DH as it is so stupid, but it's getting so good; I couldn't possibly stop now! Watched Grey's Anatomy and really despised self for lack of control over TV remote. Will perhaps watch half next week and attempt to write second half for exercise in TV plotting, as don't really care what happens at the end.
Wow! What a wholesome weekend. Cavorting with the damned and watching Bree damn her son among them was about as bad as it got. Right?
4.19.2005
I Am EMPLOYED
It's official.
I knew it had to happen someday. They even gave me an e-mail.
meghan@cutandrun.tv
Now Miss Blotto can get fired for "misuse of Senate computers" a la Jessica Cutler aka The Washingtonienne except of course I don't work for the Senate, nor am I a ho on Jessica Cutler's rather high level, nor does MISS BLOTTO tell you everything, my friends, unlike Jessica Cutler... yich.
Really, they gave me the e-mail so FedEx can send me shipment confirmations.
I knew it had to happen someday. They even gave me an e-mail.
meghan@cutandrun.tv
Now Miss Blotto can get fired for "misuse of Senate computers" a la Jessica Cutler aka The Washingtonienne except of course I don't work for the Senate, nor am I a ho on Jessica Cutler's rather high level, nor does MISS BLOTTO tell you everything, my friends, unlike Jessica Cutler... yich.
Really, they gave me the e-mail so FedEx can send me shipment confirmations.
4.14.2005
The FedEx Man
He bounds in with a spring in his step, the California sunshine bouncing from the top of his ever-growing forehead. He displays every gray incisor, bicuspid, and molar in his wide, yet charmless grin. Golden chains, begging to nestle in a Gotti boy's chest hair, instead sit atop his black and purple mock-turtle tee. Socks travel towards his knees, stopping mercifully mid-shin.
It is the FedEx man.
FedEx man lacks the affable quirks of Irwin the mailman, who smells old and obese despite his thin frame. He also suffers in comparison to Denise the UPS lady, with her Bettie Page bangs and dimpled butterscotch cheeks, and the multitude of Mexican messengers who double-park my boss with both sullenness and glee. FedEx man mentally undresses the female staff as he helps himself to a bottle of water and with his plasticine voice bids us good day.
Naturally, I am late preparing a shipment the day he arrives early. Oh, he would be too happy to wait, he says, eyeing the freshly baked white-chocolate-macadamia-nut cookies on the counter, and Kimberly, the swishing blonde videologger. Oh, no trouble at all.
NOW Contact, give me the address! Why do you slow me so? FedEx.com chooses to forget my saved recipient names, forcing a manually typed override. I print the label: FedEx man appears in the copy room doorway, blocking my escape.
"Ever use FedEx Express Online before?" he asks, as if to ponder whether I come here often. "You sure didn't seem to have any trouble."
Flummoxed, I fold my self-sealing FedExEnvelopeAddressPak on itself, trapping my label in a cellophanous Bubble Boy, never to enter... never to leave. I pull it apart and mash it onto my FedEx box, now precariously balanced on one knee.
I hold it out at arm's length.
"Thank you so much for waiting."
"No trouble... Meghan. No trouble at all."
It is the FedEx man.
FedEx man lacks the affable quirks of Irwin the mailman, who smells old and obese despite his thin frame. He also suffers in comparison to Denise the UPS lady, with her Bettie Page bangs and dimpled butterscotch cheeks, and the multitude of Mexican messengers who double-park my boss with both sullenness and glee. FedEx man mentally undresses the female staff as he helps himself to a bottle of water and with his plasticine voice bids us good day.
Naturally, I am late preparing a shipment the day he arrives early. Oh, he would be too happy to wait, he says, eyeing the freshly baked white-chocolate-macadamia-nut cookies on the counter, and Kimberly, the swishing blonde videologger. Oh, no trouble at all.
NOW Contact, give me the address! Why do you slow me so? FedEx.com chooses to forget my saved recipient names, forcing a manually typed override. I print the label: FedEx man appears in the copy room doorway, blocking my escape.
"Ever use FedEx Express Online before?" he asks, as if to ponder whether I come here often. "You sure didn't seem to have any trouble."
Flummoxed, I fold my self-sealing FedExEnvelopeAddressPak on itself, trapping my label in a cellophanous Bubble Boy, never to enter... never to leave. I pull it apart and mash it onto my FedEx box, now precariously balanced on one knee.
I hold it out at arm's length.
"Thank you so much for waiting."
"No trouble... Meghan. No trouble at all."
4.13.2005
Rules for Defensive Nondating
1. Referred to as "hanging out."
2. Bar tabs only.
3. Group things are fine.
4. It's nothing personal.
It's like dating. Just... without dinner.
2. Bar tabs only.
3. Group things are fine.
4. It's nothing personal.
It's like dating. Just... without dinner.
4.06.2005
Epworth... My Sweet Epworth!
Duke is considering converting my freshman dorm, Epworth, into office space.
The university is pooping on my freshman year!
What literature department is going to go to the Hideaway 17 nights in a row? What lit department is going to act out scenes from The Real World on the upstairs hall? What lit dept is going to get Duhon to strip for Peanut's birthday?! Or draw wolf cartoons of everyone in the philosophy of evolution class? Or manufacture fake IDs and throw the evidence out the window when Kappa Sigs come a-knockin in the wee hours of the morning? Or play flag football with such gusto, or croquet on the front lawn?
Oh Duke... Oh Duke... Surely it hasn't come to this.
The university is pooping on my freshman year!
What literature department is going to go to the Hideaway 17 nights in a row? What lit department is going to act out scenes from The Real World on the upstairs hall? What lit dept is going to get Duhon to strip for Peanut's birthday?! Or draw wolf cartoons of everyone in the philosophy of evolution class? Or manufacture fake IDs and throw the evidence out the window when Kappa Sigs come a-knockin in the wee hours of the morning? Or play flag football with such gusto, or croquet on the front lawn?
Oh Duke... Oh Duke... Surely it hasn't come to this.
Oopsie
So the other day I was temping at this crappyass place and adding up all the costs of my education in a bitter attempt to stay awake.
FIE my supercilious tidings, my hoiter-than-thou attitude. It has bitten me in the ass, my friends. I am now temp-to-perm under a rather stern producer, who calls me "Casey" and whose sense of humor is either nonexistent or simply dry to the point of desiccated.
Be careful what you wish for, Meghan... tread soft...
FIE my supercilious tidings, my hoiter-than-thou attitude. It has bitten me in the ass, my friends. I am now temp-to-perm under a rather stern producer, who calls me "Casey" and whose sense of humor is either nonexistent or simply dry to the point of desiccated.
Be careful what you wish for, Meghan... tread soft...
4.04.2005
Oh Dear God
I should copy and shrink my Duke diploma to wallet-size, and print it on cardstock, and carry several of them around like business cards so that when I'm assigned to collate a million tearsheets singing the praises of microdermabrasion, and the assignor begins to explain to me exactly what collating is, I can take one out and shove it in her face and shout, "Duke-Duke MotherFUCKAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
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