Inbox Intervention

Geez, take one Friday off from work and come back to find out in terrible, grisly detail exactly what the interwebz think of you. Why, I'm out of shape, undereducated, and lousy in bed - though I could still make untold millions working from home, so that's something. I'll need the money, since my accounts with numerous banks have been frozen; I might also want to rustle up some quick cash through online gambling. But first and foremost, I really need a new watch, because mine is just an embarrassment. No wonder I have no luck with the ladies! I've received several order confirmations, so hopefully a replacement is on the way.

It's possible I have some work-related emails in my inbox too, but I haven't found them yet, because they're hopelessly buried under all the subject-line notifications our spam-filtering software thoughtfully sends along so that I'll know how many spam messages I'm not receiving.

And for some reason I seem to be subscribed to the "Maritime News."

Small World

No one who has to be up as early as I have to be up in the morning has any business blogging at this hour.

And yet I must.

So tonight it ensued - over a drink or two, naturally - that one of the industry contacts on this trip is familiar with the old nightmare marketing company I worked for in Corpus. He was in fact flabbergasted that I used to work for that awful place, but very interested to hear the inside perspective I was able to provide.

But then I had to go and tell the story about Ursula, its CEO, whom he's met, and now he's going to have nightmares. Nice going, Beth.

I've told the story here before. But this computer is too slow for me to go and look it up, or at least I'm too lazy. Suffice it to say it's a story I tried explaining to my companions I absolutely could not tell, which resulted in them buying me more wine and being quite insistent, so I did. Delicately. I tried not to be too graphic. It concerned the CEO of my old company, her husband, the patio of their island home, and a complaint from the neighbors...

"Oh my God!" shouted one of my coworkers, when I'd skirted the horrible truth as well as I could, "you're talking about public muff-diving!"

So much for subtlety.

Well, tomorrow's another day. I hope my coworkers will still respect me in the morning.

Ya Don't Say

I get the night off!

"I should have called you," apologized my boss when I arrived; "it's been so quiet all day, you really could just take tonight off, unless you'd rather work."

"No," I said, "I have a bit of a headache, and this afternoon I almost put toothpaste in my armpits."

"Why don't you go home," she suggested.

Actually it wouldn't even be so bad if I hadn't been awakened at the crack of noon (having gone to bed at 7) by Anna's teacher, calling to tell me that oh by the way school was closing early to avoid anyone having to deal with hurricane traffic (here?) so could I please come pick her up immediately, she was waiting. I arrived, ten minutes later, out of breath, to find that Anna had been put to work cleaning up the classroom. "Sorry I'm late," I said, "I worked 9pm last night to 6am today."

Like she cared. "Well, you should come see us more often," sang the teacher as we left. "And don't do any traveling this weekend! There's a hurricane!"

What? Where?!

I hope it was just because they didn't need me that I got sent home tonight. Last night, craving a caffeine kick (despite being the only woman in a room full of men, which generally keeps me on my toes; but they were all pretty busy) I grabbed my wallet out of my backpack and ran downstairs for a Coke. I stopped by my own desk for a few things, so I was gone a good ten or fifteen minutes. And when I got back, I saw that the vanilla-flavored condom I have been carrying around ever since it was tossed to me at the Gay Pride Parade in 2007 was perched in plain sight in the splayed-open pocket of my backpack.

I'm not sure it's even possible to coordinate emergency response efforts while working from home.

Truth Hurts

There's a reason you usually have happy hours for people who are leaving a job, rather than starting one. It's because employers tend to frown on a new employee asking to work from home after only two days.

My cheeks are still tingling from the smack Robbie gave me last night, and he didn't slap me in the face. And Tony! Who'd have thought the guy had so many hands?! Come to think of it, maybe I'm the one who needs to be working from home.

True friends are the people who tell you what you don't want to hear, but need to face, and who wipe up your tears afterwards. And if they then get you falling-down drunk, tenderly minister to the resultant injuries, and cap the evening by dirty-dancing with you, well, what more could a girl ask for?

I was going to post a picture of what I did to my knee last night, but it's really gross. My toe is all bloody, too. That's nothing compared to how barked up my heart is, and oh, this morning, my head... But time, friends, sleep, Tylenol, coffee, extensive therapy, and Neosporin heal most wounds.

Hopefully Tony will show up to work Monday.

My Very First Time

Parents and coworkers, just move along. Nothing to see here.

Have you ever been to a porn shop? This is probably a silly question. Who hasn't? Aside from me, of course. I've reached the age of nearly 38 and never so much as darkened the door of such an establishment; which is odd, you know, because on the whole, I'm not particularly maiden-auntish.

But after Bryan's happy hour last night, over strawberry margaritas and a chile relleno at Baby A's, Robbie said, "Hey. Want to go to the Adult Video Megaplexxx?"

I shrugged. "What the hell," I said.

In college, I had a housemate who worked for Pleasureland Video for a while, just down the street from our co-op. He worked at the counter, but one of his job duties was general tidying up, including the viewing rooms. He quit after about a week and a half, and that's about all I really know about porn shops. So this one was rather surprising.

The customers didn't look right at all. I've always assumed these places were frequented by furtive, mustachioed men in trenchcoats and dark glasses. But the clientele - minus one or two guys you'd immediately peg as major-league pervs - looked so normal. There were several couples, both gay and straight. There was your obligatory Friday-night bachelorette party. Overall, there were a lot of healthy, cheerful, regular-looking folks, most of them college-age or slightly older, almost none of them waggling their eyebrows or wheezing lasciviously.

The clerk carded us at the door, and laughed when she saw my ID. "You're beautiful," she said.

Nothing I saw in there was really all that much of a surprise, except I didn't know they made dildos quite that big. (Welcome to all my new Google visitors, by the way!) And oh my God. The things people will put in their butts! I was shocked.

The visit was both educational and fun, and probably good for about a month of working from home. But since none of my coworkers have read this post, nobody will understand why.