So, I go to the Y on a few days ago because I like to be all trim and fit.
I got to the fitness desk to pick up my towel and get my locker room key. Behind the desk was the cutest/prettiest young woman you’ve ever seen. She must be home from college and is just a lovely looking young woman.
I ask for a key and say that anywhere in the locker room is fine. She hands me a key and says “Here you go, sir. #85″
Sir? Somewhat crushed, I walked into the locker room wondering if I looked like a sir. In no way did I expect to score with said adorable young woman, but, did she need to call me sir?
After biking, I got dressed and went to return my key. I was told “Have a nice day, sir”.
Just emotionally devastating. Iâ€™m a wreck and a half.
On to less amusing topicsâ€¦
Iâ€™m up here in NJ this week, and I ran into one of my old pals from HealthCareRelatedCompany. A year ago or so, she wisely escaped the pit of despair where we used to work and now works in the pit of despair that is the Ivory Tower. Anyway, I walked over and said hi. She asked if Iâ€™d heard about Mike.
FinancePal: Yes, Mike D.
He had a stroke.
WHAT?! I was thinking about him last week.
Back in the old days, I had made reference to Mike. He was our inventory guy, a diabetic, and someone who took shitty care of himself. I made an off-hand reference to him here that makes me unhappy to read because my prediction almost came true.
Iâ€™m slightly pissed and slightly depressed. Pissed because he should have known better all along. He once passed out in the office and slipped into a minor little coma-thing because his sugar was all effed up. Pissed because he knew what he was supposed to do to take care of himself, yet he never did it.
Depressed because the guy turned 40 2 days ago.
He just had a fucking stroke. Iâ€™m not in one of those â€œLetâ€™s reassess my lifeâ€ moods, but Iâ€™m still not happy. I take good enough care of myself, but Iâ€™m wholly expecting to burst into flames some day or be sitting on a plane with the next highly contagious TB patient or something. If I make it to 50, Iâ€™ll consider it an accomplishment.
Damn. I need to get his number and call his ass.
But, letâ€™s see if I can lighten the mood.
No? Okâ€¦letâ€™s talk about the rabid monkeys here at work.
MTR (New name alert! New name Alert! This is short for MarcTheRetard) is out this week on vacation and itâ€™s my job to try to figure out what heâ€™s been up to. He left me a whole pile of shit to â€œwatch overâ€ in his absence. And by â€œwatch overâ€, I think he meant â€œFigure out that Iâ€™m a retard and then communicate that to the vendors because, Whooee Jesus, Iâ€™ve been fucking up a lot latelyâ€
In an email to one of our programmers, I actually said:
â€œNot to sound like too much of a jerk, but please ignore MTR. What we discussed this morning is accurate.
The programmer wrote back to thank me because MTR was making no sense. I mean, (and here I go on a technical and boring tangent), he canâ€™t even measure a piece of paper. Nor can he differentiate between which specs are for programming and which are for production. As a result, I have both groups calling me to ask what the hell is going on.
It doesnâ€™t sound bad, but when you factor in that he was apparently hired because of his vast printing knowledge, itâ€™s not good.
I donâ€™t know.
Iâ€™m still pissy about Mike.